


The Blue Light

by Lorelei_Lee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caning, Drugged Sherlock, Drugs, Erotic Electrostimulation, Friendship, Gen, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapped Sherlock, Kissing, Loss of Trust, M/M, Memory Loss, Pre-Slash, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Torture, Trust Issues, Violence, Wax Play, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei_Lee/pseuds/Lorelei_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty abducts Sherlock several times in a row, bringing him to a secret location where his victim is at his mercy. Thanks to a special drug cocktail, Sherlock has no memory of the abductions. But he begins acting strangely back home. So strangely that John finally notices...</p>
<p>(This story takes place between "Scandal in Belgravia" and "Hounds of Baskerville".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Das blaue Licht](https://archiveofourown.org/works/738768) by [Lorelei_Lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei_Lee/pseuds/Lorelei_Lee). 



> And again the amazing SwissMiss volunteered to translate a story!!!! Give her a hug!!!
> 
> Author note:  
> I took inspiration from fairy tale motifs for this story, especially from "The Blue Light", which there are two versions of - one from Hans Christian Andersen and one from the Grimm brothers.
> 
> I got the idea for using fairy tales from Moriarty's appearances as Richard Brook on the children's television show. 
> 
> The only problem inherent in this story is the timeline, or rather the placement of the story within the framework of the broadcast series. This fic is set in the second series, between "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Hounds of Baskerville". All of the internet sources I've found say that there are at most two weeks between those episodes. That's not nearly enough time for this story. So please indulge me... my version of "The Blue Light" extends over several months.
> 
> There will be depictions of violence in this fic - nothing extreme, but it's there. I'll include a specific warning at the start of each chapter where necessary.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I earn nothing from this and am only doing it for fun. Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now resides in the public domain. The Sherlock television series belongs to the BBC and Moffat and Gatiss.

As a little teaser... two covers mady by me...

 

 

 


	2. Prologue

" _Bastien_ \- it's fantastic!"

 

Sebastian Moran allowed his face to spread into a smile.

 

Moriarty's praise filled him with a deep pride - the pride of a soldier who has satisfied his commanding officer with his service.

 

When Jim Moriarty was pleased, he spoke Sebastian's name with a peculiar - almost priggish - French intonation, letting Sebastian know all was well. At other times, it was _'Sebastian'_ or _'Seb'_ or, if it was a really bad day, _'Moran'_. On the worst days of all, it was an icy _'Colonel Moran'_ , which made even his blood run cold … and he was a battle-tested soldier.

 

He'd been Moriarty's henchman for quite some time now, but it wasn't until the incident at the pool that he'd stopped being just one amongst many and begun a gradual rise to the position of Moriarty's right-hand man. A unique position of trust that Sebastian tried to live up to by pleasing his leader and offering his unswerving loyalty.

 

"You've truly outdone yourself, _Bastien_ ," Moriarty cried enthusiastically, turning around in a circle with his arms outstretched like an over-excited child.

 

The praise was more than justified. It hadn't been easy to find a location that fulfilled all of Moriarty's wishes, visions, purposes, requirements, and conditions.

 

Sebastian had thought it hopeless at first. But he'd stuck to one of his boss's mottos: _Hopeless? Maybe. But not impossible._

 

Sebastian had made inquiries, studied files, pored over tomes and blueprints, interviewed people and browsed his way through libraries. He'd been almost ready to admit defeat to Moriarty when he'd been rewarded with the luck of the diligent.

 

There were houses all over London that weren't really houses at all, but facades that hid the rail lines behind them, presenting an agreeable house front to passers-by. That wasn't anything special in and of itself, but one of those houses concealed an additional secret: it doubled as the entrance to a hidden government bunker from the Second World War. There were very few people left who even knew of its existence, and they had been easily disposed of. The key hadn't been difficult to obtain, and any files mentioning the house or the bunker were destroyed - a library falling victim to fire, and single pages being removed from other documents and reports.

 

It had taken quite a while, but the job was finally complete and Colonel Sebastian Moran was the only person on the face of the earth who knew of the existence of this place... and had the key to it.

 

Today, the big day had arrived when he'd led his beloved commander-in-chief down into the depths... into the circular room that was at the heart of this bunker complex.

 

With rapt attention, Moriarty inspected the rough-hewn stone blocks, the sturdy metal door, the crumbling ventilation system and the frayed electrical cables.

 

"Granted, we'll have to tidy things up a bit... but then it will be perfect."

 

"Perfect for what, boss?" Sebastian had taken to calling Moriarty _'boss'_ , which seemed to be met with approval.

 

"What for? _Bastien_? You're wondering what all this is for?" Moriarty purred. "I'll tell you what it's for. This will be the perfect spot to play a few games... with my favourite playmate... Sherlock Holmes."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOooo**

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOooo**

 

There really are row houses like this in London. When I went searching for bunkers on the internet for this story, I stumbled across this and thought it would be perfect!

More information (in German):

<http://www.londonleben.co.uk/london_leben/2006/01/leinster_garden.html>

Original link:

http://www.londonleben.co.uk/photos/uncategorized/leinstergardens.jpg

_You all know this house by now…_

**N.B. This fic was written in 2013, several months before series 3 aired. I had no idea they were going to use the same location for Sherlock's confrontation between John and Mary.**

 

Although the house in my story has a regular door and no trees in front of the windows.

All that aside, there is no lack of secret bunkers and abandoned underground sites in London:

(Links all in German)

<http://www.londonleben.co.uk/london_leben/2005/11/north_end_tube_.html>

<http://www.londonleben.co.uk/london_leben/2005/02/der_geheimbunke.html>

<http://www.londonleben.co.uk/london_leben/2005/06/whitehall_tunne.html>

 

Here are the time lines I consulted for this story:

<http://lyrical-sky.tumblr.com/post/15950973899/sherlock-timeline-of-series-1-and-2-condensed-edition>

<http://jefflion.tumblr.com/post/23814153063/sherlock-timeline-reconstructed>

 

Here's a picture that inspired me when describing the round room:

Original link:

<http://www.dover-castle-friends.org/tour/towers/Dover-Castle_Says-Tower-Inside.jpg>

 

 


	3. Nicotine Patches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks go to the wonderful SwissMiss because of her wonderful translation!!!

 

**Chapter Two**

**Nicotine Patches**

 

One little side note... regarding the slash categorisation... there's not really going to be a slash pairing in this. I don't want to mislead you. But this fic does have erotic, sexualised undertones of a slashy nature, or in other words, pre-slash. But nothing that would justify an adult rating.

 

On the other hand, the descriptions of Moriarty's _'games'_ are really only intended for adult readers.

 

That's why I was of two minds when it came to assigning a rating and category to this fic. As I said - I don't want to mislead anyone.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOOooOOOooo**

 

After a long shift at the clinic followed by a nerve-wracking trip to the shops to replenish their food supplies, John Watson returned to the flat at Baker Street. When he entered the kitchen, weighed down by three jam-packed shopping bags, he found Sherlock in precisely the same position he'd left him in that morning.

 

The detective was hunched over on a chair at the kitchen table in a pose that wasn't doing his back any favours, peering intently through a microscope with an array of his sundry inscrutable experiments scattered across the table in front of him.

 

John's footsteps must have given him away, for no sooner had he set the shopping bags down on a clear corner of the worktop than Sherlock spoke - without so much as glancing up, naturally.

 

"John, I asked you two hours ago if you'd ever dealt with a case of leprosy." There was a hint of reproach in Sherlock's tone, and John had already taken a deep breath in preparation for giving him a piece of his mind when he reconsidered. Getting upset over Sherlock's thoughtlessness never ended well.

 

"And?" he asked instead, pretending his interest had been piqued. "Did I answer?"

 

The response seemed to unbalance Sherlock enough for him to abandon his experiment for a moment. John watched Sherlock's forehead crease before the man himself looked up from his microscope with an irritated look on his face.

 

"No," Sherlock said. "You didn't. What..." His eye fell on the shopping bags. "Oh, you've been shopping. Why didn't you say so? You could have picked something up for me." The reproachful tone was now accompanied by a sulky look reminiscent of a king whose favour hadn't been appreciated enough by one of his subjects.

 

John rubbed one finger across his nose to keep the initial stirrings of a headache in check before crossing his arms over his chest.

 

"I told you I was going to the shops. This morning, when I left for work. Because it would be nice if we could pay the electrics bill." But he could have saved himself the trouble of making the jab, since Sherlock heard only what he wanted to, as usual, and only half of that to boot.

 

"This morning?" A dismissive gesture accompanied the statement. "When I think of all the things..."

 

"Yeah, yeah - earthshattering breakthroughs," John interrupted. "Right. Don't really care at the moment. What I do care about is whether the fridge is suitable for storing food."

 

Sherlock's gaze shifted from irritated to confused. "Food?"

 

"Yes, food," John repeated. "The stuff normal mortals need to ingest to stay alive and halfway functional. Or, to put it in terms you'll understand: that _I_ need to ingest in order to keep running after you with my gun cocked to ensure you don't kill yourself accidentally. Or get yourself killed. So. Once again: is the refrigerator in a fit state for storing food?"

 

Sherlock squirmed back and forth on his chair. "Well..." he said.

 

John braced for the worst before suddenly crying out, "Wait a second! What was all that about leprosy before? Did you... you didn't... Leprosy! In our refrigerator!"

 

"No, no..." Sherlock raised his hands in a gesture meant to both negate and assuage. "That was purely a hypothetical... well... _practically_ hypothetical question... The items in the refrigerator are completely non-toxic."

 

"How non-toxic?!" John asked sternly.

 

"There's nothing leprous, at least," Sherlock answered, managing to sound both guilty and defiant.

 

John closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. There was that headache stirring again.

 

"Some comfort," he muttered dryly. "As long as there are no eyeballs or fingers..." he murmured and went to the refrigerator. "There aren't any eyeballs or fingers, are there?" he asked Sherlock, receiving a negative reply. When John opened the door to the refrigerator, however, he had to hold back a cry of displeasure. He slammed the door shut again and whirled around to face Sherlock, who regarded him with a downcast expression.

 

"You said there weren't any eyeballs _or_ fingers!" he hissed angrily.

 

"That's factually accurate," Sherlock said in his defence. "There are eyeballs AND fingers. It's not my fault you ask such imprecise questions."

 

John counted silently to ten and tried to take deep breaths. He only got as far as seven.

 

"Sherlock - this refrigerator will be ready for use in ten minutes. And when I say ready for use, I mean that the body parts currently inside will have disappeared or at least have been relocated to an airtight container. Further, you will not only clean the refrigerator, you will disinfect it. Is - that - clear?!"

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll do it later," he said flippantly.

 

"No!" John growled. "Now. Immediately. Pronto. Step to it."

 

A mocking look was sent his way.

 

"Why should I?"

 

"Because I got this..." John reached into one of the shopping bags and took out a small box. "...for you."

 

"Nicotine patches! Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed eagerly, jumping up from his chair.

 

But John was ready for him. He held the box up over his head. "Not so fast. First the refrigerator."

 

"John, this is childish."

 

"Possibly," John conceded, but continued to hold the box up.

 

"No..." Sherlock shook his head. "Definitely childish." He reached his arm up next to John's, easily surpassing his height, but didn't make any move to retrieve the nicotine patches.

 

John felt a traitorous heat rise to his face and lowered his arm.

 

"Here," he muttered sourly, shoving the box into his friend's chest. Sherlock took it with a superior smile. "But the refrigerator's getting cleaned - today!"

 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replied absently, inspecting the box. "This isn't my usual brand."

 

"I know," John sighed as he set about stowing the groceries in the refrigerator. "They don't stock the ones you usually get anymore. They're not even being produced. The company went out of business or was bought up or something along those lines. But they have exactly the same ingredients," John told him.

 

Sherlock had opened the package by now and was carefully scrutinising the patches. Then he shrugged. "All right," he decided, rolled up his sleeve and stuck two patches to his forearm. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, making a sound of pleasure.

 

"Two things," John said from where he was standing by the refrigerator. "First: could you not moan like you're at an orgy in my presence? And second: don't you want to read the package insert?"

 

"Why should I?" Sherlock murmured with a blissful expression. "You've assured me these patches contain the same substances. You're my doctor. I trust you."

 

"Sherlock..." John turned around to face him in order to express his misgivings over Sherlock's behaviour, only to discover that Sherlock was already stretched out on the couch in the living room, staring at the wall through half-lidded eyes. John sighed and muttered crossly, "Why always me?"

 

The box of nicotine patches lay on the kitchen table. John reached for it, fumbled around until he got the package insert out, unfolded it and scanned it.

 

"Because you're a good person, John," he said to himself, reading the side effects somewhat more carefully than the rest.

 

Headache, dizziness, nausea, tachycardia, anxiety... _rarely_ sleep disturbances, nightmares, numbness, migraine, involuntary muscle contractions... _very rarely_ muscle pains, profuse sweating, chest pains, cramps... _at high dosages_ nausea, vomiting, cold sweat, sudden drop in blood pressure, hypothermia, vision and hearing impairment, weak and irregular pulse and cramps.

 

John reacted calmly to the list. More or less the usual.

 

After that he unsuccessfully tried to fold the insert back the way it had been originally, gave it up as a bad job and scrunched it up haphazardly before stuffing it violently back into the box.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was deep in the night when Sebastian Moran scrabbled up the facade of 221 Baker Street, unimpeded by the backpack he wore. He nimbly used the drainpipe and windowsills to aid his ascent. As quiet as a shadow, he approached his goal: a specific window on the first floor, behind which Sherlock Holmes' bedroom was located.

 

He'd trained for this mission for weeks, painstakingly cased the area, and memorised everything down to the last detail. His mind, his senses, and his body worked together like a piece of well-oiled machinery.

 

He hadn't worried he might be discovered up to now. His clothing was as grey as the moonless night, and his hair and face were concealed by a stocking mask of the same colour. The hard part came now that he'd almost completed the first stage of his mission.

 

Opening the window without making a sound was a real challenge, even for him. He discreetly sprayed a silicon lubricant around the frame, waiting a moment before he carefully employed one of his special tools to open the window with a soft click - a click that sounded, to his sharpened senses, like a gunshot breaking the sleepy silence.

 

He slowed his breathing the way he'd learned in the army. Listened to the darkness. Waited. Nothing stirred. The mission could proceed as planned.

 

Sebastian slid the window open a crack and took a small sphere made of porous material out of an airtight capsule. The sphere began to let off a hazy fog in the nighttime air, and he flicked it through the gap in the window into the room.

 

Then he waited motionless on the windowsill for a little longer than a minute, until the little odourless ball of oxygen-reactive sedative sublimated completely and did its job.

 

Without removing his backpack, he took a gas mask out of one of the outside pockets and pulled it over his head. Then he opened the window the rest of the way, swung his legs over the windowsill into the room and slid down to the floor.

 

It was easy to locate the dark, shapeless lump under the covers, and child's play to inject the second dose of sedative into the forearm of the target with a needle-free jet injector.

 

Sebastian now tiptoed into the adjoining bathroom. His boss had given him specific instructions to take a thorough shower and wash his hair before setting out on tonight's mission, but not to use any perfumed soap or deodorant. The target was apparently able to detect foreign odours in a room even hours later. Sebastian had complied and was now carrying out another of Moriarty's orders. He was supposed to find out which deodorant, aftershave, and other personal care and hygiene products Holmes used so that he would be able to use them himself during subsequent operations and not leave behind any trace of a foreign scent.

 

Sebastian thought that was taking things a bit far, but an order was an order. He conscientiously stored the name of every product that might belong to the target in his memory. When that was done, he returned to the bedroom. There, he took off the backpack he'd been carrying around with him and took out one more item.

 

It was a brand-new innovation from the American military: an ultra-light yet extremely durable telescope ladder that could be collapsed down to less than one metre in length and could be set up or retracted without a single bothersome click. Sebastian didn't much care how his boss had got his hands on it. He started to extend it, carefully lowering it out the window into the courtyard below. Both ends of the ladder were padded with a thick layer of felt - an addition Moriarty had insisted on, and which Sebastian had taken care of personally. Sebastian felt this precaution was overly paranoid as well, as he couldn't imagine the target would be able to draw any conclusions regarding the presence of a ladder based on the minimal scratches on the wall of the building and the window frame. On the other hand, he'd understood completely the reason for not using the ladder to climb up. It would have had to remain leaning against the wall for too long, disproportionately increasing his chances of being discovered.

 

When the ladder was secured to his satisfaction, he went back to the bed, threw back the cover and slung the inert body over his shoulder with a few practised moves.

 

He then initiated his retreat, burdened by his precious cargo. This wasn't entirely unproblematic, yet still within his capabilities as a former elite soldier. The ladder lived up to expectations, and the target turned out to be quite lightweight. Once he'd reached the bottom, he collapsed the ladder down to size for transport with a series of flicks of his wrist he'd had to practise ad nauseum, then clamped it under his free arm, all the while holding on to the lifeless body. He slipped away unseen through the back alleys until he reached the unobtrusive car with the fake license plates he'd left parked there earlier in the evening.

 

He settled the still unconscious body on the back seat with calm self-assurance, got into the driver's seat, started the car, and drove off.

 

His boss would already be awaiting his playmate with bated breath.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When I went looking for something Sebastian could use for climbing back down with the additional weight (no, vacuum suction cups like Spiderman uses won't work. Yes, they exist, but according to what I've read, they're too loud and cumbersome) - I stumbled across telescope ladders. I made them even more modern and nifty in my story than they are in real life. I hope you can indulge me.

And sorry… all links are in German.

 

Telescope ladders:

<http://www.eurotops.de/aluminium-teleskopleiter-39273.html>

 

You can read how needle-free injectors work here:

<http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nadelfreie_Injektion>

<http://www.injex.de/technologie>

I'm just assuming that this kind doesn't leave any marks on the skin - unlike a regular needle. Why is that important? You'll find out in the course of the story...

And here are some pictures that show what a jet pen or injector might look like:

Original links:

[ http://thefutureofthings.com/upload/image/news/jet-injections-may-improve-skin-cancer-treatment/jet-injector-skin-cancer.jpg ](http://thefutureofthings.com/upload/image/news/jet-injections-may-improve-skin-cancer-treatment/jet-injector-skin-cancer.jpg)

 

[ http://www.alice-dsl.net/robyscho/Zimeda/Bilder/6510101.jpg ](http://www.alice-dsl.net/robyscho/Zimeda/Bilder/6510101.jpg)

      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Bunker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My special thanks go - as always - to SwissMiss for translating this story.

 

**Chapter Three**

The Bunker

 

**oooOOOoooOOoooOOOooo**

 

Following an uneventful drive, Sebastian parked the car as close as possible to the hollow house. He'd already taken off the gas mask before setting out, and he stowed it now in the glove box.

 

The non-functional street lamp which left the pavement mercifully in the dark - Sebastian's doing - made it possible for him to spread an old blanket over the lifeless body, heave it back up over his shoulder, and carry it across the empty street to the door of the house without fear of discovery.

 

His manner and gait were self-assured and brisk. He'd learned that the more confidently one moved, the less attention one drew to oneself, and the fewer questions were asked. Once at the door, he took the key out of his pocket, opened the brand-new, burglar-proof lock and went into the house.

 

Shielded as he was now from curious eyes, he let his load slide rather unceremoniously from his shoulders to the floor before closing and locking the door behind him. Only when that task was accomplished did he put on a headlamp - the kind that was popular amongst joggers - and turned it on. The LEDs blinked on, providing a weak, sickly blue beam of light. It had no clearly defined contour, instead serving merely to make the darkness fade somewhat as it dully illuminated the room they were in.

 

There wasn't much hidden behind the empty facade. Just a space - once plastered white - that covered the full width of the supposed house but was only about four yards deep. Sebastian had applied a special foil to the windows in the front wall which maintained the appearance of the glass but made it impossible to look in from the outside - not even if a light were on inside, as it was now.

 

On the other hand, Sebastian had no idea what the white lace curtains were for which Moriarty had hung on the windows himself. As a soldier it wasn't really his place to ask questions. As a soldier, it was his place to follow orders.

 

His attention was focused on the metal trapdoor in the floor in the middle of the room anyway. He went over and pulled it up. The hatch was easy to open, which was no wonder as Sebastian had repaired the hinges and oiled them well. The metal plate moved virtually soundlessly until it slotted into place at a 45-degree angle. A stone staircase was visible in the gaping square hole in the floor, leading straight down into the abyss.

 

Sebastian lifted his burden up onto his shoulder again and started down the stairs. Once his head had cleared the opening of the hatch, he groped for the rope attached to the trapdoor and pulled on it to close it. He held his arm up to stop the lid from falling, guiding it gently and quietly into the frame of the opening. Now all that was left was to slide a bolt across - to prevent anyone from entering from the outside - and Sebastian could be on his way.

 

The faint light from the headlamp flickered occasionally over the claustrophobically close brick walls on either side of the steps, leading deeper and deeper into the earth. There wasn't any electricity in this section of the complex, which included the fake house, making the headlamp a necessity. The air in this part of the bunker was close, almost musty, and the walls gleamed with moisture in several places. Moss and lichen grew here and there out of the cracks between the bricks, casting oft-times grotesque shadows on the walls in the weak blue light as the shaft continued down, down, down.

 

Sebastian estimated that the main part of the bunker was approximately three storeys beneath the surface. The steps opened up onto a smooth, narrow corridor that went straight for a few yards before widening and splitting into three separate passages. Sebastian entered the left-most passage, only needing to walk a few more yards before he reached a steel door. It stood open a crack already, and he pulled it open the rest of the way with one hand.

 

Before him lay a round room, its raw, practically unshapen stone blocks appearing oddly archaic in comparison to the orderly bricks that had been used for the steps and corridors. Sebastian had wondered about it the first time he'd scoped out the location, asking himself whether a pre-existing (and apparently dry) well had been integrated into the facility or whether the Lords and Ministers had planned on carrying out cult rituals in this room - spurred by fancies of King Arthur's Round Table.

 

Whatever it was, his boss had been so enchanted by the space with its arched ceiling that he'd christened it his main playroom. Oh, there were other rooms which Sebastian had had to bring up to snuff, but this round chamber occupied a special place in Moriarty's heart.

 

The furnishings now included a divan with legs that were somewhat longer than usual. It was covered in midnight blue - almost black - leather and situated across from the door, as close as possible to the curved wall. Next to it was a comfortable, Colonial-style chair upholstered in the same leather, looking like it would be right at home in an elegant smoking room. A circular, knee-high table of dark walnut rounded out the furnishings.

 

Although there was electricity down here and even an overhead light, the whole chamber was appointed with multi-armed candelabra, either attached to the walls or spaced around the floor. The candleholders held blue candles that burned with blue flames. Moriarty had found a chemist who was able to mix the blue wax with a special copper salt so that the candles didn't glow with a yellow light, but gave off a true, blue light.

 

The effect of the flickering blue illumination was rather irritating.

 

Sebastian went over to the divan and deposited the unconscious body on it.

 

He was just checking the target's heartrate and respiration when he heard the short, measured steps of his boss behind him. He straightened immediately.

 

Moriarty was wearing a snow-white suit with a black shirt and a white tie. Even his shoes and socks were white. The memory of how excited his boss had been about the suit rose to the forefront of Sebastian's mind. The corners of his mouth twitched in a modest smirk. The boss had promptly ordered five copies of the white suit from Westwood.

 

Without deigning to so much as glance at Sebastian, Moriarty went straight to his new playmate. His eyes and his face appeared cold, assessing, and calculating.

 

"He's still unconscious," Moriarty noted coolly, turning his gaze on his henchman for the first time.

 

"Yeah," Sebastian confirmed. "The dose was a little too high. I'll recalibrate it next time. I didn't know he was so light."

 

Moriarty shoved his lower lip forward. "Well, things do happen. Although they shouldn't." He sighed. "But fine. I'll wait." He dropped testily into the chair beside the divan. "You can go," he said, waving Sebastian out.

 

Sebastian inclined his head briefly to show he'd understood.

 

"I need to take him back in two hours, boss. It'll be too light outside otherwise."

 

"I know, I know!" Moriarty sighed with overdone theatricality. "All the nice things are always over too soon."

 

Sebastian nodded again and left the room.

 

As soon as the door closed behind Sebastian, Moriarty's eyes slid greedily over Sherlock's body, which was dressed only in a t-shirt and pyjama trousers. He catalogued everything, sucked it in, internalised it - from the ebony locks that framed the snow-white face in such delectable disarray to the full, blood-red lips with the enchanting Cupid's bow curve.

 

He wasn't the evil stepmother and the poison wouldn't be administered via a comb or an apple. Still... the situation all but screamed for a glass coffin.

 

A maniacal spark gleamed in Moriarty's eyes as his words formed a tender caress: "Alone together at last, my beloved foe."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 

Okay - there are pictures again today.

 

 

1) Inspiration for the bunker:

 

2) The furnishings

 

 

 

And here's the proof that you can set up a cavern to be fairly liveable... and this is also approximately what Moriarty's chair would look like.

 

Original links:

[ http://www.times-series.co.uk/resources/images/1637811.jpg?display=1&htype=100000&type=mc3 ](http://www.times-series.co.uk/resources/images/1637811.jpg?display=1&htype=100000&type=mc3)

[ http://www.urban-exploration.com/pictures/cathedral/rooftops/monument/escalier_jacob_de_la_cathedrale_de_coutances_07.jpg ](http://www.urban-exploration.com/pictures/cathedral/rooftops/monument/escalier_jacob_de_la_cathedrale_de_coutances_07.jpg)

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	5. Fairy Tale Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be evil. But not _that_ evil. Here... have another chapter!

 

**Chapter Four**

Fairy Tale Hour

 

Chapter note: Trigger warning: Threatened breaking of bones

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When Sherlock came to, he was blurrily and only vaguely aware of raw stone walls and a flickering blue light. Was he under water? His breath caught instinctively, and panic seized him when he started to run out of air. Why weren't his arms and legs obeying him anymore? Why were his thought processes so slow, as if his brain had been bound in chains and irons? The tightness in his chest began to become unbearable and a face swam into his field of vision from the left.

 

James Moriarty!

 

A blow landed on his face, and he automatically gasped for air.

 

Air!

 

Cool, damp, stale air filled his lungs as if it were the most delicious ambrosia.

 

"My goodness, Mr Holmes," Moriarty sing-songed with a quiet chuckle. "Mercy me. I wouldn't have thought you might suffocate on me out of pure pig-headedness."

 

Moriarty's face disappeared from sight, but his voice continued to float through the shimmering air. Sherlock tried to move his head, his fingers, anything at all, but he wasn't able to. His vision became darker... the walls moved in time with the vibrations of Moriarty's voice, liquefied before his eyes, only to re-form... Sherlock closed his eyes, exhausted. A dream. A nightmare.

 

As if Moriarty had read his mind - which seemed entirely plausible if this were a dream - his words cut through Sherlock's sluggish brain like a hot knife through soft butter.

 

"No, Sherlock. I'm afraid I have to disappoint you... it's no dream. At least not for you." There was real regret in the voice echoing in his head as if it were his own. Was it his own voice? Were they his own thoughts? Was he his own greatest enemy? Was _he_ Moriarty? He wanted to scream, to lash out, or at least to open his eyes and make sure Moriarty wasn't just in his head, was really standing in front of him in the flesh, but the only thing he could manage was a pained, muffled groan.

 

"Isn't that a fabulous drug I got for you?" Moriarty remarked in a chatty tone. "Of course it's too bad you got a bit too much. But we'll fix that next time. Eh? You're surprised! _Next time?_ Oh yes, Sherlock, you heard right. There will be a next time. And another one and another one... and only I know when I'll stop having you brought to me." The voice sank to a threatening whisper, still worming its way into every nook and cranny of Sherlock's brain, seeping past every barrier like a poisonous fog.

 

"I'll have you brought here as often as I like, for as long as I like... If I feel like it, I'll have you brought here every night. Here... with me..."

 

Sherlock felt cool, spidery fingers reaching for his left hand (the one closest to Moriarty) and lifting it until a hot mouth touched his knuckles in a parody of a tender kiss. Revulsion welled up in Sherlock, bile stinging in his throat. He summoned the last of his energy to pull his hand away from the light grasp, but his body failed him.

 

Moriarty laughed softly with something akin to pity. "I must say... quite a nice little invention, the stuff that's running through your veins. Undetectable - or at least not for long... and then only if you know what you're looking for." Another laugh, but this time there was no pity, only amusement.

 

"It has certain similarities to so-called date rape drugs. Except... this is no _date_ and I think I'm going to leave your virginity intact... but even if not... you won't be able to remember a thing. That's right, Sherlock... you're going to wake up in the morning in your own little beddie-bye with absolutely no recollection of the time we spend together. Oh, and one more thing... the complete paralysis of your limbs is just a pleasant side effect. At least it's pleasant for _me_. I'd venture to guess it's rather abhorrent to _you_ , being at my mercy like this... completely helpless... defenceless..." Moriarty pressed his lips to Sherlock's hand again and murmured on, the motion of his mouth against the skin on the back of Sherlock's hand making him shudder with disgust.

 

"I could do the most unmentionable things to you... and maybe I will... you'll neeeever know." As he spoke the last few words, Moriarty lapsed into his peculiar sing-song.

 

"It's just too bad I can't leave any visible marks on your body... really a shame... because otherwise I could break your sweet little fingers right here and now... just like that..." He paused a moment, only to continue in a mocking, childish voice: "It would be so easy... so quick... that would be the end of playing the violin for a while... and wouldn't that be a shame?"

 

Sherlock felt himself break out in a cold sweat as Moriarty's fingers moved across his hand, caressing it, then clasping one of his fingers and wiggling the apathetic digit back and forth in its joint.

 

"Yes, I could do that... but if I send you home with any bruises, your lap dog will get suspicious. Ask questions, start sniffing around." Moriarty now seemed annoyed. "I don't want your soldier butting into my business. At least not yet. I'll be the judge of when the time has come to sow suspicion."

 

Sherlock's hand was dropped abruptly, thudding unchecked onto the divan's upholstered surface. He heard Moriarty breathing and waited... it wasn't as if he could do anything else anyway.

 

After a short while, Moriarty began speaking again. He now sounded cool and business-like, even a bit bored.

 

"As soon as the effects of the drug have been calibrated better to your body, you'll be able to open your eyes and speak. It's a bit of a popular cliché that the villain always likes to hear himself talk, but..." Moriarty sighed. "It's just a cliché. It's so dull without any protests, whinging or screams of pain."

 

Another sigh sounded.

 

"You're probably asking yourself what the purpose of kidnapping you is... much less doing it over and over again. Well, I'm not _quite_ ready to tell you that yet. I'm sure you understand. It would spoil the whole effect. And if anyone knows about showmanship, it's you - the _great_ Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand... do I really need a reason? You see, that's the advantage when you're off your rocker - you never need to justify yourself or give a reason for anything ever again. It's really rather liberating. But you may be familiar with the theme of repeated abductions. No? How tedious..." Moriarty clicked his tongue in disapproval.

 

"I see my alter ego as the storyteller on that kiddy show has some advantages. The children, for one thing. Wonderful creatures. So tiny and already so cruel. You can tell them the most bloodthirsty tales and all they do is clamour for more. More murders, more torture, more, more, more! It was really quite inspirational for me. Especially the parents who just stand there smiling and then come up and thank me afterwards for enriching their children's lives sooooo much." Moriarty burst out laughing.

 

"Fantastic... the irony... anyway." He gathered himself again and went on in a low voice: "And then there are the stories themselves. Very instructive. Extremely insightful once you study them more closely. Black and white, good and evil, reward and punishment... all generally strictly delineated... at least at first glance... and yet... and yet... the borders are usually smudged very quickly... the good guys take revenge, and in doing so commit clearly evil deeds. Often even more evil and gruesome than the supposed villains. In the end, there's only one difference between good and evil: the good guys pretend not to enjoy their evil deeds, which is why they always need an excuse for them. Any excuse. An excuse to justify what they've done. Ooops!" he cried out daintily and clapped his hands.

 

"I hope I haven't given away too much there! Let me tell you just one more thing, Sherlock: the good guys are all lyyyyying."

 

With a concerted effort, Sherlock managed to turn his head and open his eyes a slit. Moriarty's face reflected unadulterated delight. "You don't agree? Wait, don't say anything... I can tell just by looking at you. It's written all over your face. What can I do to convince you?"

 

Sherlock tried to make out something of his prison, to take in data and store it. Even though his adversary assured him he wouldn't be able to remember anything, Sherlock wanted to play it safe. After all, what reason did he have to believe Moriarty?

 

But no matter how hard he tried, his visual acuity was so impaired by the drug in his bloodstream that he was unable to focus on any one point.

 

He put two and two together to conclude that Moriarty must be sitting in a chair next to where he was lying, but beyond that he had only an impression of blue light undulating through the air as if in waves. The observation flew in the face of any physical law, and Sherlock grudgingly gave up the attempt to discern anything more about his current location.

 

He perceived motion at the edge of his foggy field of vision and tried to concentrate on Moriarty once again instead of the room.

 

The other man crossed his legs and placed one finger over his lips, creating a thoughtful pose.

 

"I think an example would be helpful... Who is truly the _evil_ one in this story: the witch who intends to let the soldier rot at the bottom of the well? The soldier who kidnaps the princess night after night to gorge himself on her beauty? Or the princess' parents, who want to have the soldier arrested and executed for his sacrilege? Or is it really the soldier, who prevents his execution by causing the deaths of the princess' parents? Hm?" Moriarty waited a moment before yawning, apparently bored.

 

"Yes, I know. The witch. Easy choice. Simplistic." He yawned again. "Do you know what my choice would be? The princess! Surprised? But why? Think! How does the princess feel when she finds herself suddenly orphaned? She's happy! _Happy!_ And the first thing on her mind is to marry her parents' murderer." Moriarty sighed with satisfaction.

 

"Now that's what I call evil. There's a useful benchmark for once. I wonder..." He broke off, only to continue in a voice that audibly conveyed his leering grin. "The princess is such a fantastic character. _Very_ flexible sense of morals... complete lack of sentiment... Sound familiar yet? Yes? I thought it might. It sounds an awful lot like _you_ , Sherlock. Although... in the end..." His inflection became barbed and razor-sharp.

 

"In the end she offers herself up to her kidnapper like some kind of cheap streetwalker." He giggled and his voice slid back into more flattering tones. "I wonder, Sherlock... are _you_ the _princess_? Are you really like _this_ princess? Would you offer yourself up to your kidnapper, _just_ like the princess? Without any sense of _shame_? To the highest bidder? Or in other words, to whoever frees you from your parents - oh, what am I saying, from everything that's holding you back? Who frees you from the need to pretend as if you don't enjoy doing the bad things you do? I can't offer you a kingdom, precisely... but with you at my side... _Sherlock_... the _world_ would be our oyster!" Moriarty's voice was a seductive growl by now. "The only question is... will you offer yourself to me? Me? Your kidnapper? Your tormentor? Your... _redeemer_?" There was a rustling of clothing, and all of a sudden Moriarty's voice was right next to his ear. "We shall see, Mr Holmes. We shall see."

 

A subtle scratching sound came from somewhere, and Moriarty looked at his watch.

 

"Time really does fly when you're having fun," he declared, shaking his head. "It's time for your second dose, Sherlock, and for you to be getting back. But don't be too sad... we can continue our little chat next time."

 

All of a sudden there was another body in the room - a body that moved between him and Moriarty. Sure, quick, quiet movements; efficient. But Sherlock's vision was dim and his brain stumbled when it tried to function as usual, and before Sherlock could spare a thought for the other man, he had already lifted the detective's leg and pressed something cold against the sole of his foot. Sherlock felt a brief burn, and as the room started to swim before his eyes, becoming darker and darker, one final clear thought formed in his brain...

 

Jet injection. No needle. No traces...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

 

(Keep in mind! I had no knowledge of the deleted scene with Magnussen and Sherlock in the hospital when I wrote this!!!)


	6. Panem et Circenses

 

**Chapter Five**

Panem et Circenses

 

Chapter note: Trigger warning: Humiliation, auto-strangulation

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The sensation of suffocating, of drowning, was overwhelming. Blue... stone... a dungeon beneath the ocean...

 

Before he even realised he was awake, Sherlock Holmes sat bolt upright in his bed. His mouth was distended as if in a scream and oxygen flooded his lungs thanks to his frantic gasps.

 

A fleeting impression... a memory floated like a wisp of fog at the edges of his mind. The certainty that something terrible lurked within that fog, just waiting to reach out its greasy claws for him, was so ridiculous that Sherlock dismissed it with an irritated shake of his head … notwithstanding his involuntary shudder.

 

A dream. Possibly a nightmare. He didn't even try to recall what it had been about. He'd never succeeded in doing so. Anyway, he'd never been interested in his own dreams.

 

The only thing that he couldn't figure out was why he felt like he'd ended up under the wheels of a lorry. He wasn't nearly as well rested as he normally was following an extended nighttime repose. Since he didn't have a case on at the moment, he'd gone to bed at a reasonable hour, and had fallen asleep right away. Any other time, he would have felt refreshed and alert after so many hours of undisturbed sleep. Today, on the other hand, he felt like his head was full of cotton and his bones ached as if he had a bad case of the flu.

 

After showering and dressing, he felt a bit better. Maybe a cup of coffee would help banish the last remnants of his malaise and clear his head.

 

When he took a seat at the breakfast table, John was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs.

 

"I'll have coffee, John," he called into the kitchen, flipping open the newspaper.

 

"Anything else?" John complained, albeit with a faint smile. "Perhaps I can tempt your tender palate with some smoked salmon? Or would sir prefer caviar and champagne today?"

 

Sherlock smirked. " _Veuve Cliquot_ , please. Vintage..."

 

"Regrets... we're out of Veuve." With these words - and the frying pan in his hand - John came into the living room. When he caught sight of Sherlock, he stopped short. "All right, Sherlock. Here." He dumped the entire contents of the pan onto a plate and set it in front of Sherlock.

 

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

 

"Eat," John answered.

 

"I only want coffee, thank you," Sherlock insisted.

 

John frowned. "You'll eat that first. Then you can have coffee. Have you looked in a mirror this morning? You look terrible."

 

"I've looked in the mirror several times this morning," Sherlock remarked with an indignant sniff. "I look the same as always."

 

"Aha," John said, crossing his arms over his chest. "That is not true, and you know it." He placed a fork next to the plate. "Eat. Now. I'll go make the coffee."

 

"Yes, nurse," Sherlock retorted peevishly, but he set the newspaper aside and picked up the fork.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock blinked. At the blurry sight of the rounded stone walls, he was overcome by a sense of déjà vu. Blue shadows flitted across the curved surface, which seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Had he been here before? No. Yes. A dream? Was he dreaming?

 

"Is our Sleeping Beauty awake yet?" Moriarty's sickly sweet yet piercing voice rang out. Sherlock turned his head toward it, although it took a great effort. His eyes tried to slide over and inspect the man who had just entered through a heavy steel door and now stood at ease in the centre of the room, but his brain crept along at a tortuous snail's pace. Sherlock blinked hard and moistened his dry lips with his tongue, becoming increasingly irritated and confused.

 

"Ooohhh." Moriarty drew the sound out until it sounded almost obscene. "Did he forget about me awweady?" he lisped in the mocking voice of a child. When Sherlock didn't reply, Moriarty stretched his neck and twisted his head from one side to the other. "Obviously. All right, fine. That was also the point, that you forget everything. Although I had hoped just a teensy weensy bit that I might have made a more lasting impression on you. But I suppose I never did." He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "You can't have everything. Just don't think I'm going to give you a speech every time about why I've kidnapped you and what I plan to do with you. _Bis repetita non placent_."

 

"It would only be polite," Sherlock said, regretting the fact that his voice sounded so weak and scratchy.

 

Moriarty clapped his hands in delight. "It speaks! Fantastic! Oh, you have no idea how _bored_ I was last time. The dose was calibrated much better this time. I am so excited. _Bastien_ has more than earned that bonus."

 

"Last time?" Sherlock heard himself ask, even though he hadn't meant to. His brain really wasn't functioning very well. He could speak and move his head more or less normally, but his arms and legs refused to obey the way they usually did.

 

Moriarty grinned. "Yes... you've been my guest here before. This is our second meeting. But it won't be the last." His expression darkened. "But enough of that. Let's play."

 

"Play?" The word slipped past Sherlock's lips, and an ominous sense of foreboding gave him goose pimples.

 

"Yes... play..." Moriarty replied slowly, filled a syringe and lifted Sherlock's left arm, which he held up in his grasp effortlessly. "I have something quite tasty here... it will make you a little more mobile, but also a little less in control than what I've already given you."

 

Sherlock tried desperately to get away but it was no use. The needle found its way to his armpit and released its poison.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sebastian Moran watched with stoic calm through a flap in the heavy steel door as his boss dragged his drugged and now utterly apathetic playmate from the divan to the floor.

 

He watched, unmoved, as Moriarty sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and bade the man cowering on the floor to lick the tips of his shoes.

 

After a while he heard his boss say he'd imagined it would be more exciting.

 

Sebastian closed the flap when Moriarty took off his shoes and socks, extending his bare feet toward the other man with the order to clean between his toes. Sebastian Moran, soldier, resumed his post in the corridor until his boss called him to return the prisoner.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"My God, Sherlock! What's wrong with you?" John barked at him.

 

"What?" Sherlock asked, bewildered. Oh - right. They were still standing over the body, and judging by the look on John's face, Sherlock hadn't said anything for the past two... no, three … minutes, staring off into space instead. John had noticed he'd done this several times in the past few days, and it disquieted him. It wasn't like Sherlock to just check out like that. He was always focused. Always alert. Always there. Recently, though... he was soooo tired. Yet he was sleeping. Every night. Even though he was working on cases. And now John had rubbed salt directly into that wound, in his own practical way. Indeed: what was wrong with him?

 

John's expression shifted. Ah - the good old doctor was taking over. Nice.

 

"Sherlock... when's the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

 

"Last night. And the night before. And the night before that!" he snapped. "As I have every single bloody night!"

 

John's reaction was calm. "You don't look like it. Those dark circles around your eyes are starting to take on a life of their own."

 

A grin flitted across Sherlock's lips. "Since when are doctors allowed to mock their patients' health?"

 

"Oh, so you're my patient now, are you?" John played at being surprised. "Good to know."

 

Sherlock didn't follow up on that, instead bending over the body again. He sniffed the dead woman's fingers then looked around the bedroom where she'd been found.

 

"Do you see a vibrator here anywhere?"

 

"A WHAT?" Lestrade interjected from where he stood off to the side, his arms crossed.

 

"A vibrator... a dildo or similar sex toy," Sherlock replied, unruffled. "It may have rolled underneath the bed..." he murmured. The next moment, he was on his stomach under the deceased's bed. "YES!" He crawled back out, holding a small pink vibrator between two fingers. "Evidence, Lestrade." With a sarcastic "Thank you", he dropped the item into the proffered bag, which Lestrade immediately sealed.

 

"So it was... what? Murder? Or not?" Lestrade wondered.

 

"Death by self-strangulation." Sherlock indicated the rope around the dead woman's neck. "Auto-erotic asphyxiophilia. If you're not familiar with the term... Google it, Inspector. It was an accident and as such neither your nor my area."

 

"So that's why all the windows and doors were locked: she was alone... there was no one else here," John marvelled, and Sherlock basked just a bit in his friend's admiration.

 

When they were back out on the street, looking for a free taxi, John resumed the topic of their earlier conversation, to Sherlock's dismay.

 

"I see you heading for your bedroom every night," he began, tilting his head to one side in thought. "But... do you really go to sleep then? Or do you lie awake half the night?"

 

Sherlock sighed. Once John got his teeth into a subject, he held fast to it with the tenacity of a bulldog.

 

"I actually sleep," Sherlock replied, before adding hesitantly, "It simply doesn't help. I'm often even more tired in the morning than I was the night before."

 

John twitched his eyebrows. "You're not getting any younger," he opined dryly.

 

"Excuse me?" Sherlock burst out.

 

"I only mean your body may be getting its own back - for all the abuse you've doled out over months and years," John explained calmly. "To be honest, I was thinking along the lines of a nervous breakdown - but your exhaustion also has its upsides. Take a bit more of a break now and then, and you'll be good as new in no time, driving me and half of Scotland Yard up the wall again."

 

"Only half of Scotland Yard?" Sherlock asked, pursing his lips coquettishly.

 

John laughed. "I always knew you were the reason for Lestrade's grey hair."

 

"Every single one!" Sherlock replied, grinning proudly.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

Chapter end notes:

 _Bis repetita non placent_ \- Latin for **'repetitions are not well received'**

 

 


	7. Snow White's Coffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Fear of being buried alive, bedwetting, humiliation, fear of the dark
> 
>  
> 
> I can't imagine anything worse than being buried alive, so I definitely didn't take writing this chapter lightly. I can't even watch movies where it happens without sleeping poorly for days afterwards, if at all.
> 
>  
> 
> So please take the trigger warning seriously. And remember, this isn't the last chapter. There are several more.
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock’s parents in this story are not like his parents we met in the actual series. Just keep that in mind.
> 
> My everlastings thanks to SwissMiss for this perfect translation.

 

**Chapter Six**

**Snow White's Coffin**

 

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When Sherlock opened his eyes, it was dark. Not just the darkness of his bedroom when he'd drawn all the curtains, but a pitch-black, impenetrable gloom that completely surrounded him.

 

He tried to turn over and stretch his body out of the foetal position he was lying in but no matter what he did, his arms and legs remained strangely numb, and he found himself running up against a hard, unyielding barrier on every side.

 

His heart rate began to accelerate in panic, but he forced himself to remain calm. He felt around awkwardly with his hands, only to find nothing but wood on all sides.

 

Good God. He was locked in a box.

 

The realisation hit him like a ton of bricks. He instinctively gasped for air, and discovered that there was a draught coming from somewhere. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't find any bit of light that might tell him where the inadvertent chink or purposeful air hole might be.

 

At least he was able to discount one of humankind's most primal fears - that of being buried alive. If he were under the earth, there was no way fresh air would be getting in.

 

So it was a transport box. But he wasn't being moved. No sound reached his ears, and there was no telltale shaking or vibration that might have allowed some conclusions regarding the mode of transport. He'd obviously been drugged, since the last thing he remembered was lying on the couch at Baker Street and thinking. Had he fallen asleep? Could this just be a nightmare? Sherlock felt it getting warmer and more stuffy in the crate, in spite of the air hole. How long had he been here? And how much longer was he going to have to wait until someone came?

 

He must have dozed off despite his rapid pulse, since the next time he opened his eyes, it was still dark.

 

The second awakening was even worse than the first. No matter how hard he tried to keep his rising panic under control, he was unsuccessful this time. His brain kept coming back to the same thought: What if no one comes? If no one ever comes again? What if they let him rot in this box?

 

Why was he so weak? Why was he unable to push against the walls of his prison? To free himself? Maybe it was the drug... its effects would wear off eventually... his strength would return... then he could work at getting himself out.

 

He tried to get his heart rate under control and rein in his panic by taking slow, shallow breaths. He managed it to some degree anyway, and he forced himself to remain calm and just wait.

 

He still had on the pyjamas he'd been wearing on the couch, although they were now stuck to his sweaty skin the same way his hair clung to his feverish forehead.

 

The air was getting thicker, hotter, and closer by the minute. Sherlock was well aware that was partly his imagination, and yet...

 

He must have lost consciousness again. The third time he woke up, his panic finally gained the upper hand. He lost control over his bladder and bit down on his lips to suppress a whimper.

 

The sharp scent of urine was nauseating, and he wondered how much longer it would be before he had to throw up.

 

Footsteps.

 

Sherlock didn't do anything more than register the sound apathetically at first. He was probably hallucinating.

 

But then he heard them again. Clearer. Closer.

 

Steps. Two pairs of shoes. On stone? Wood? He didn't know. His heart beat faster. What were those footsteps bringing? Freedom? Or death at last? A bullet through his skull? Or torture? An almost hysterical laugh lurked in his throat. Even worse torture? The crate had been extremely effective in that area already.

 

The shoes had stopped. Something rustled. Cloth on wood. Oh - there must have been a blanket or something draped over the box. Now it was being taken off. He heard it slide to the floor. Cold light forced its way into his prison through a tiny slit. Rattling. Metal on metal. Clicks. Sherlock swallowed, his throat dry. A padlock was unlocked and removed. A hinge was flipped up. The lid of the box was raised. Cool air hit his sweaty, overheated body, making him shiver. A white suit came into view. Blue light surrounded the stranger like an aura. The lid was lifted further until it was completely open... Moriarty!

 

The man in the white suit was Moriarty.

 

Sherlock tried to speak, but found himself unable to.

 

"Surprise!" Moriarty cried with the exaggerated affectation of a ringmaster, only to promptly wrinkle his nose. His gaze sought out and found the humiliating evidence of Sherlock's lack of self-control. "Oh, no..." Moriarty wailed petulantly. "Sebastian... our Snow White wet himself. How are we going to get this mess cleaned up?"

 

"No problem, boss," a dull voice said from somewhere beyond Sherlock's field of vision. "I have a hair dryer here."

 

Hot tears burnt behind Sherlock's eyelids, but he stubbornly refused to let them flow. He didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction.

 

Moriarty smirked. "Still no tears? Never mind. Maybe next time."

 

Even as Sherlock's churning brain processed that remark, some kind of thick pen sank down on his arm and he lost consciousness again.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock was out of bed and halfway up the stairs to John's room before he was even really awake.

 

_He was five years old again and had woken up in the middle of the night. His pyjama bottoms were damp, and he was lying in a cold, wet spot on his mattress. Again. A distraught sob escaped his lips, and he called for Nanny. But no one came. It was dark in his room. Why was it so dark? Nanny always left the nightlight on. Mycroft thought it was childish and teased him for it, but Nanny had lied to Mycroft and told him that Sherlock was a big boy now and didn't need a nightlight anymore. She still turned it on for him every night though. It was their secret. His and Nanny's. Where was she? He called her name again, but he strained his ears in vain for her light footsteps in the fluffy slippers._

_Nanny was pretty terrific. She never scolded him when he had a nighttime accident._

_"No wonder, such a small thing like you," she always said. "You see far too much the whole day through, asking questions until the rest of us are half mad. Stands to reason that your head's all topsy-turvy. It'll go away by itself when you get big. You're just overstimulated."_

_And then she would wrap him up in her dressing gown, which was much softer and warmer than his own and smelled so nice, like lavender and vanilla, before she put fresh linens on his bed, all without making a fuss. Sherlock didn't know precisely what overstimulated meant, but it was probably like when Mycroft called him a nuisance._

_Nanny still wasn't there. Maybe he should go look for her? But then he'd have to get out of bed... and it was so dark._

_Determined, Sherlock gathered all his courage and felt his way through his dark bedroom, his heart pounding anxiously, and went out into the scary corridor with its floorboards that creaked so eerily at night. He padded barefoot to Nanny's room and pulled the handle, but the door was locked. His little heart squeezed with fear. What now? He was so desperate he might even have gone to Mycroft, but his stupid brother had been back at his stupid school for a week already. He didn't have any choice... he was going to have to go to his parents' bedroom._

_He ran down the dark hallway as fast as he could, so fast that the shadows lurking behind the pictures and cupboards couldn't catch him. He was breathing hard when he reached his parents' door. His little body stretched up, his hand reached for the handle and pulled it down. The door swung open... and Sherlock froze on the threshold._

_Why were Mummy and Daddy naked? And why was Mummy kneeling in front of Daddy with her mouth where he made wee? And why was Daddy moaning like that? Was he hurt? Was Mummy hurting him there?_

_Just then Daddy looked over at the door._

_"Dammit," he said loud and clear. "The boy."_

_His mother screamed softly and jumped up. "Sherlock! My goodness! What are you doing here?" She gathered up the blanket from the bed and held it in front of her to cover herself._

_"Nanny..." Sherlock whispered in shock. "Nanny..."_

_"You stupid boy," his mother reproached him. "She has the night off. It's her mother's birthday. And now tell us what you want."_

_His father snorted. "What do you think... You can see what he wants. He wet the bed. Again."_

_"Oh, God," his mother groaned, slipped quickly into her nightgown and got out of bed. "Is that never going to be done with?"_

_Sherlock didn't say anything the whole time, just let his mother lecture and scold as she washed him, put a clean set of pyjamas on him, and re-made his bed._

_It wasn't until he was lying in bed again - without the comfort of his nightlight, as he hadn't dared ask Mummy for it - and his mother had pulled the door demonstratively shut behind her that the tears came._

_Nanny had betrayed him. He'd thought that was their secret too. He was never going to trust anyone again. Never._

 

Sherlock became aware of his surroundings again when he heard footsteps on the stairs below him. He stopped on the sixth stair, feeling disoriented, and wondered what he was doing there. Why was he running up to John's room like a bat out of hell? And in the middle of the night, no less. His hand slid to the front of his pyjamas. Dry. Sherlock frowned. Of course his trousers were dry. Why did he have the feeling that he'd soiled himself?

 

The footfalls on the stairs were familiar.

 

John? Why was John on the stairs? John was up in his room, lying in his bed, asleep. What was going on?

 

Confused, Sherlock looked up to the top of the stairs. There was the door to John's room. Then he looked down the stairs... and there was John, just coming round the corner. As soon as he saw Sherlock, he stopped in his tracks.

 

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What's going on? What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?"

 

Sherlock looked John over. Oh – right... John had taken the night shift at the hospital. How could he have forgot that? _Stupid boy_... stupid... stupid.

 

"Sherlock?" John came closer, looking concerned. He carefully touched Sherlock's arm. "What's wrong?"

 

A thousand words flooded Sherlock's throat and surged onto his tongue, but he was unable to put together a single coherent sentence. Finally, one word broke out of him. It felt like a scream, but in reality it was nothing more than a broken whisper.

 

"Dark," Sherlock said before his knees gave out and John had to catch him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Mycroft, I'm really worried about Sherlock," John hissed urgently into his phone. "I had to sit up half the night with him on the couch with all the lights on, holding his hand. Every time I let go, he started shaking like a leaf."

 

John listened to the response on the other end, then said, "No. I couldn't get a single word out of him. Just _'dark'_."

 

John rolled his eyes. "I can't help it that that was the only thing he'd say."

 

He listened again. "Yeah, I figured that bit out too, that Sherlock was afraid of the dark as a kid. I just wouldn't have thought... No, I don't know what might have triggered him. If I knew, I wouldn't have called you!"

 

John took a deep breath. "Yeah, I know it doesn't do any good for me to yell at you," he grated out. "He's sleeping now. I gave him a sedative. Yes. In a glass of water."

 

John laughed unhappily. "He certainly wouldn't have willingly taken it otherwise." He sighed softly. "Now? No... everything else is normal... we eat the same things, drink the same things, we... Oh!" John had an idea.

 

As quietly as possible, he went to the bathroom and looked for the package of nicotine patches. Of course. Half of them were missing already. What were those side effects again? Anxiety, sleep disturbances, nightmares, numbness? Bingo.

 

"Mycroft? Yeah, I'm still here. Sherlock's overdone it with the nicotine patches again. No – he's never had these side effects before... but it's a different brand. They don't make the ones he used to use anymore. Yeah... right... I'll detox him and keep you updated."

 

He rang off and exhaled loudly.

 

He preferred not to tell Mycroft that he'd had his arms wrapped around Sherlock the whole time his thin body had been seized with uncontrollable tremors, until he fell asleep.

 

It was probably also best kept secret that he'd ended up rocking him in his arms like a small child in order to calm him down.

 

Not to mention the gentle kisses that John had ghosted over the dark curls and temple of his frightened friend. No, he'd better keep that to himself as well.

 

At any rate, the tender attentions had succeeded in soothing Sherlock enough that John had been able to loosen his friend's death grip in order to get the glass of water and sedative from the bathroom.

 

After that, John had put his arms around him again as if they'd never done anything else, and while the dark hair had tickled his cheek, he'd listened to his friend's breaths become deeper and calmer, until he'd fallen into a light doze.

 

John preferred not to think about why it had been so difficult to let go of Sherlock in order to place the call to Mycroft.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"There's no need to look at the bathroom with such a longing expression," John remarked without lifting his eyes from his laptop. "I saw you."

 

"You're such a spoilsport, John!" Sherlock complained. "How am I supposed to work when..."

 

"No nicotine patches," John interrupted him sternly. "You've done so well the past four days. If you can keep it up for three or four more days, you can go back to one a day."

 

"One!" Sherlock snorted with contempt.

 

"Yes, one," John repeated firmly. "After all, I don't complain about you torturing that violin of yours at all hours of the day and night."

 

"It helps me think," Sherlock snapped back. "If I can't rely on other stimulants. And it's not torture, it's a variation on Anton Webern's _twelve-tone technique_ – you ignorant Philistine. Your bourgeois taste would probably appreciate something like Mozart's sugary sweetness more. It's so good for gumming up the brain."

 

"You're a bloody snob," John answered lightly and tapped out a few more letters on his laptop.

 

"Both my most salient and my most endearing quality," Sherlock stated dryly. "Admit it, John... that's precisely what you love so much about me."

 

When Sherlock saw John grinning at his last remark, he smiled broadly and resumed playing his violin. Funnily enough, it was ' _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_ ', by Mozart.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When Sherlock woke up, the first thing he noticed was that he was naked. It was dark and stuffy, and he couldn't feel anything but wood all around him. The space he was in was narrow, and he was unable to move.

 

A warm stream ran down his legs, forming a puddle under his body. Sherlock cried.

 

He was five years old again, and he was afraid of the dark.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eine_kleine_Nachtmusik>

 

 _'Eine kleine Nachtmusik'_ on the violin:

 

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmOov7Rx1cs>

 

Anton Webern's _twelve-tone technique_ is also a real thing. Or at least that's what Auntie Google and Uncle Wikipedia say. No idea what it sounds like, but twelve-tone music doesn't usually sound very melodic to me. I'm just as much a Philistine when it comes to music as John is. :)

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twelve-tone_technique>


	8. blue, blue, electric blue – that's the colour of my room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My neverending thanks go to SwissMiss for her brilliant translation

 

**Chapter Seven**

 

**blue, blue, electric blue – that's the colour of my room**

 

Trigger warning: Memory loss, panic attack

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"You really don't need the box anymore, boss?" Sebastian asked, screwdriver and pliers in hand. Under Moriarty's watchful eye, he was disassembling the wooden crate which had served several times to host his playmate.

 

"Mmhhh..." Moriarty shrugged. "No," he drawled, looking around pensively at the circular room, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets.

 

Sebastian paused for a moment. "Boss..." he began hesitantly.

 

"Mmhhh?" Moriarty said again. He didn't sound very interested.

 

"You probably aren't going to like hearing this..."

 

Now he had Moriarty's full attention. "Oh!" he cried, wrenching his gaze away from the rough-hewn walls and down to his loyal henchman kneeling on the ground before him. "Sebastian... might it be that you've formed your own opinion about my plans? One that is quite possibly different than my own?"

 

Sebastian shook his head. He was still _Sebastian_... therefore, it was relatively safe to keep talking.

 

"Why don't you want to use the box anymore? It worked perfectly as Snow White's coffin. Why change things now?"

 

Something akin to surprise flickered across Moriarty's face for a fraction of a second, only to be replaced by an amused grin. A sound, half laugh and half hum, forced its way out between his closed lips.

 

"That's rather obvious... Too little interaction, Sebastian. Too little interaction. Of course it was quite nice..." He shrugged again, appearing somewhat annoyed. "But _nice_... nice is just the little sister of SHITTY!" He laughed briefly, only to continue with cold precision: "I want to do the work myself. I want to complete the plan myself. I cannot allow a box to do my work for me. No... no..." He shook his head. "Our Snow White coffin did a good job, I admit, but the real crowning glory of my achievement … that triumph is reserved for me, and me alone!" He fell silent for a moment before adding bluntly, "It just gives things more of a personal touch... the world is impersonal enough already."

 

Sebastian removed another screw from the side of the crate. "What exactly do you have in mind for him?" he asked without looking at his boss.

 

Moriarty looked him over, smiling faintly. "You don't really care about that, do you, Sebastian?"

 

"Not really. I don't need to know to do my job anyway."

 

"Exactly," Moriarty agreed, not unkindly. "But it was thoughtful of you to ask."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John finally heard footsteps on the stairs, he jumped up from his chair and called, "Sherlock? Is that you?"

 

"Yes, of course... who else would it be?" Sherlock retorted, irritated, as he entered the living room.

 

"WHERE – THE – HELL – were you?!" John yelled at him.

 

Sherlock flinched back at the reception, blinking several times in a row. "Where was... what do you mean?"

 

"And where is the milk?"

 

"Milk?" Sherlock blinked again, sending John an almost worried look. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

 

"You wanted to buy milk – all right, you didn't _want_ to, I _sent_ you out to buy milk... but you went willingly because you needed something else for your bloody experiment too."

 

"Sodium bicarbonate," Sherlock murmured absently. "Yes..." He looked down at himself. "Why didn't I buy it? I can't continue without it..." He sent a beseeching look in John's direction.

 

"How am I supposed to know that?!" John answered in annoyance. "I sent you out three hours ago! THREE HOURS, Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock laughed. "That can't be. Three hours? Where am I supposed to have been all that time?"

 

"That's what I'm asking you. Lestrade called eight times in the meantime. There's been a double homicide. We were supposed to..."

 

"A double homicide!" Joyous anticipation flared up in Sherlock's eyes, but his expression darkened a moment later, his eyebrows drawing together in reproach. "Why didn't you call me? Or at least send a text? How could you..."

 

"I DID CALL YOU! ALL THE TIME!" John screeched. "And I'm wondering what the hell was so important that you couldn't even send back a text!"

 

"That's nonsense," Sherlock replied, taking his phone out of the inner breast pocket of his jacket. "If I'd received a call, I would have..." His eyes fell on the display, and his voice drifted off.

 

_12 missed calls_

_7 new messages_

 

"What..." Sherlock whispered, confused. His thumbs brushed across the touchscreen. "It's not set to silent..." He looked up. His perplexed gaze met John's.

 

As soon as John saw that look, his anger disappeared. He shook his head.

 

"Sherlock... where were you?"

 

Sherlock stared off into space. He searched his memory. He'd left the house... gone down the street... past the barber shop, the one that had been closed for weeks now... and then? Nothing. No – wait... hadn't someone bumped into him?

 

But no matter how hard Sherlock tried – he couldn't recall any more details. Three hours. If John was to be believed, then three hours of his life... were gone. Lost. Deleted.

 

His tongue tried to moisten his dry lips.

 

"Sherlock... where?" John repeated his question, now with real concern.

 

"I don't know," Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

 

John gave him a suspicious look.

 

"I really don't know," Sherlock insisted.

 

Finally, John asked, "Did you overdo it with the nicotine patches again?"

 

"No! I..." Sherlock stopped, interrupting himself. How could he be so sure? "John...something... is happening here," he said slowly.

 

"Yeah," John answered dryly. "And I don't think I'd be far off the mark to assume that certain illegal substances are playing a leading role in it."

 

"What?!" Sherlock blinked again. "Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to take drugs again?" he snapped angrily.

 

John shoved his chin forward. "I don't know. Are you?"

 

"Of course not!"

 

Blond eyebrows lifted sceptically. "Fine, then I'm sure you can tell me where you've been the last three hours."

 

"I already told you: I don't know! Why don't you believe me?!" Sherlock's pale eyes virtually bored into his flatmate. "Why should I lie to you?"

 

John blurted out an unhappy laugh. "I can think of five reasons off the top of my head."  
  


As unwelcome as the answer was, Sherlock had to admit there was something to it. Still, it hurt that John was showing so little compassion. Something was wrong. The question was: was there something wrong with him? Or was there something else that he hadn't caught on to yet? It didn't make sense to keep harping on it right now, though. Sherlock pushed aside his subliminal fears to concentrate on the more urgent matter at the moment.

 

"Lestrade needs our help?" he said. "Why are we standing around here wasting valuable time?"

 

John's shoulders slumped, although his forehead remained creased. "Fine – your choice. But we're going to talk about this later! Don't think you're going to get away with it that easily."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A taxi brought John and Sherlock to the _Prophecy_ , the nightclub where the victims had been found. They entered the lounge, which looked dusty and a little pitiful with all the lights turned on – just like all other nightclubs do. The two bodies were lying in the middle of the dance floor, inside a geometric figure that had been drawn with chalk. The bodies looked as if they had been posed.

 

"Well?" Sherlock asked, going straight to Lestrade without beating around the bush. "What do you have?"

 

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "What the hell took you so long?" he demanded accusingly. "Do you think it's fun for me to play the corpsesitter until you deign to show up?"

 

Sherlock gave him a long look, then turned on his heel and called over his shoulder, "John, we're leaving. The Lord Inspector apparently doesn't need our help."

 

"God in heaven!" Lestrade swore. "Stay! I already said: I need you!"

 

"That's better," Sherlock said with a smug smile, kneeling down next to the bodies. "Well?"

 

"They're the owners, husband and wife. The cleaning lady found them. Last seen alive by two of the bouncers..." Lestrade leafed through his notebook. "...at five this morning. They were counting the take and were going to lock up. The door wasn't locked when the cleaning lady arrived at seven, though. We haven't touched the cash register, wanted to leave that for you... the way the bodies are arranged threw us for a bit of a loop, don't mind admitting. The candles and this..." Lestrade gestured at the chalk diagram before turning another page in his notebook. "… pentagram indicate some kind of ritual. We suspect the cause of death was poison."

 

"Who suspects? Anderson?" Sherlock asked curtly.

 

"No, Anderson's on holiday," Lestrade said, grinning. "We have a charming substitute. Ramona Wilkers."

 

"Hi." A shy voice piped up, and Sherlock looked over. The voice belonged to a striking blonde woman in the typical coverall of the forensics team. She waved at him tentatively.

 

"If you want to make a good impression on her, Lestrade, try it with nougat truffles and a Hugh Grant film. She loves Chinese food and likes to cycle," Sherlock stated as he carefully probed the female victim's corpse.

 

Miss Wilkers' and Lestrade's cheeks both turned red.

 

"I hate him," Lestrade stage-whispered to John, who had stepped up beside him. "Why did the bastard make me wait so long anyway?"

 

John sighed softly. "I really haven't the faintest idea. But I wouldn't press the issue if I were you."

 

"Sore topic?" Lestrade asked.

 

"Very sore topic," John agreed.

 

"Is it my imagination, or has he been quicker with results in the past?" Lestrade asked after a while.

 

John frowned. "No... I think... he's not exactly in top form these days."

 

"John?" Sherlock called.

 

"My lord and master speaks." John sighed and walked over. "What is it?" he asked once he'd knelt down on the other side of the corpse.

 

Sherlock lifted the dead woman's hand. "Do you see this little pin prick? Here... in the pad of her index finger?"

 

"Yeah, I..." John started to say, only to fall silent when the lights suddenly went out and it became pitch black.

 

"Fucking hell!" Lestrade roared through the club's lounge. "Who was that?! Turn that light back on now!"

 

Someone whispered frantically, "Shit, shit, shit," and then somewhat louder: "Sorry, Inspector! I hit the light switch by mistake. Hold on... I'll... I'll get it."

 

A click sounded and the lights flared back on. They weren't the normal neon tubes, however; they were a light array made of blue LED lights arranged in geometric patterns around the walls.

 

By the glow of those blue lamps, John saw Sherlock let go of the dead woman's hand and assume an expression that reminded John of a rabbit frozen in front of a snake.

 

"Sherlock?" he whispered softly, but Sherlock apparently couldn't hear him. His eyes were flung wide open, staring at nothing, and his pupils were so huge in his pale face that they looked like two black, bottomless pits.

 

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John asked in a low voice, touching his friend's shoulder, but Sherlock didn't seem to register that either.

 

"Perkins!" Lestrade cursed. "If you don't want to be on duty every Sunday from now until Christmas, you'll hit the right switch, but now!"

 

"Yes, sure," Perkins called, sounding slightly panicked. "Sorry, Inspector."

 

There was another click, the blue lights disappeared, and the usual neon lights lit up the room like before.

 

John felt a shiver run through Sherlock's body. His eyes focused again, and it was clear that he recognised his friend again. His respiration was still as shallow and quick as a hare that was faced with a mortal fear.

 

Sherlock's gaze fell on John's hand touching his upper arm. John withdrew it.

 

"Everything's fine," Sherlock answered gruffly before standing up. "Lestrade... I'll look at the cash register now."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock stared at the register, not seeing anything. To anyone else, he appeared to be the picture of concentration, but inside he simply could not manage to form a single coherent thought, much less to follow up on the idea that had occurred to him earlier, and which would certainly have been the key to clearing up the case.

 

It was enormously tempting to confess to John that something was seriously wrong with him. But John didn't believe him; he'd made that clear when they'd been back at their flat. More than clear. Why should anything be different now? He wasn't sure what he could tell John anyway. Should he say that he'd been overwhelmed by a sudden, eerie sense of panic? A panic that had no rational basis and was a mystery to himself as well?

 

Triggered by a couple of blue lamps!

 

There was no way he could say that to John. If John had served up a story like that, Sherlock probably would have had him committed. And he personally didn't have any great desire to become acquainted with a closed ward from the inside. John would think he was either on drugs or insane. Both fantastic options. He therefore didn't have any choice but to keep it to himself. If only he didn't have the nagging feeling...

 

Was he going insane after all? Could it be that he was taking drugs without remembering it later? Were there even drugs he would be interested in that had such a side effect? That might be a starting point. He would start researching it as soon as he got home.

 

He took a deep breath, and his eyes came back into focus. The panic had receded completely. His mind seized on the vague idea that had occurred to him earlier. The register... yes... there were some small scratches...

 

He carefully prised open the cash register with the help of a pen, discovering a little coil spring that had been very cleverly mounted there.

 

He straightened up, relieved, and called for Lestrade.

 

"Inspector – a poisoned pin was mounted here. At least now you have the woman's cause of death."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The light... the blue light... there it was again...

 

Again? Sherlock frowned. Had he been here before?

 

When another electric shock jolted through his naked body, both the faint memory and consciousness fled once again.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 

There really is a nightclub in London with light arrays like that on the walls: Kabaret's Prophecy

Original link:

<http://blog.photos4travel.com/kabarets-prophecy-london/>

 

  


 

 

 


	9. Sex, Lies, and Videotape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the wonderful SwissMiss!!! Thank you so very much!!!

 

**Chapter Eight**

 

**Sex, Lies, and Videotape**

 

Trigger warning: Electroshock torture, erotic electrostimulation, humiliation

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock spent the next few days either with his nose in a book or behind his laptop, when he wasn't descending on St Bart's and driving Molly and Mike Stamford (and any of their colleagues he could lay his hands on) to the brink of insanity with his pointed questions about drugs and poisons. At some point, it became too much even for Molly, and she escorted him out of her lab, threatening to call security.

 

"Sherlock! No!" she cried, at her wit's end. "My boss is breathing down my neck, Inspector Dimmock's been waiting for my report on the Harrowgate homicide for two days already, and the bodies are piling up."

 

"Just one more question..."

 

"NO!" Molly screeched. "I'm busy!"

 

Sherlock flinched back in shock when she actually slammed the door in his face. His hand went for the door handle automatically, but Molly was faster – and possessed of an astonishing presence of mind – since before he even had a chance to touch the handle, he heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock. He smirked a bit, feeling around in his jacket pocket for the necessary tools to pick the lock, but stopped when he heard something that sounded like the door handle being blocked with a chair. His smile transformed into a grudging grimace of acknowledgment.

 

Just to be on the safe side, he fished his phone out of his jacket and pushed the sequence of buttons to call Molly.

 

Ah ha. Her number went right to voice mail. Sherlock ended the call and dialled another number.

 

Inside the lab, the shrill of the land line ringing came through loud and clear.

 

"SHERLOCK!" Molly shrieked, and then it sounded like... Had she really ripped the cable out of the telephone? At least the ringing had stopped rather suddenly. "FOR YOUR INFORMATION," Molly barked through the closed door, "I'm more than happy to pay for the damage out of my own pocket!"

 

Sherlock briefly considered Molly's atypical behaviour, combining several dates, numbers, and facts in his head.

 

"Oh," he finally said under his breath. "PMS. Obvious." He shrugged. He'd just have to come back again next week.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

But Sherlock still wasn't any closer to a solution a week later. Of course, there were drugs which could result in a blackout, for lack of a better word, but their other effects were definitely not of the sort that might tempt him to consume them.

 

His research had thus reached a dead end, there were no new cases on the horizon (there hadn't been any new developments in the double homicide from the nightclub), and Sherlock could already feel the boredom seeping out of his pores. He stuck a single nicotine patch on his arm with much ado – making sure that John saw him doing it. Later, when John was making a racket preparing dinner in the kitchen, Sherlock slunk back into the bathroom and put another patch on his stomach.

 

A sigh of pleasure escaped his lips, and he snuck back into the living room. When John was done in the kitchen, he even allowed himself to be talked into eating something, letting John assume that his improved mood through the course of the evening was due to his full stomach. Sherlock refrained from correcting him, and when John settled in to watch crap telly, Sherlock went to bed.

 

But that night didn't bring Sherlock any rest, neither for his mind nor for his body. He was plagued by nightmares and awoke several times bathed in sweat. When he finally got up the next morning, feeling thoroughly worked over and with dark rings around his eyes, he started to wonder whether the second nicotine patch had really been such a good idea.

 

But although he went back to one patch a day from then on, the nightmares continued to dog him, albeit not so frequently. He considered giving up the patches altogether, but that wasn't really an option. And so Sherlock was left with the choice of nightly terrors or biting his nails down to the quick out of boredom every day. The bad dreams (and the nicotine patches) were – for him – the lesser of two evils.

 

It took a while, but eventually, John noticed his friend's poor condition and couldn't avoid remarking on it.

 

"Yes, I know." Sherlock waved him off impatiently. "Nightmares. Side effect of those damn nicotine patches."

 

"Maybe you should go without them then?" John ventured to suggest.

 

Sherlock just gave him a long look and John sighed. "Yeah, yeah... all right," John said. "I know, I know. Anything that stops you from laying waste to the flat is preferable."

 

"Thank you," Sherlock said. His tone was cool, but he was oddly pleased by the concerned expression in John's eyes.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Another nightmare... it had to be a nightmare... although could you feel things when you were dreaming? Was it possible to experience pain in a dream?

 

Maybe it was real after all... because why should he dream that Moriarty was torturing him for no reason? On the other hand... did Moriarty need a reason?

 

Sherlock didn't know how long he'd been sitting on the chair. The bonds holding him in place were surprisingly comfortable, if unyielding. The padded leather cuffs with buckle fastenings were an unexpected choice. He would have said Moriarty was more the packing tape and wire type. Nevertheless, both his wrists and his ankles were firmly ensconced in the aforementioned leather cuffs. His hands were tied to the back of the chair behind his back and his feet were each fixed to one of the chair legs, leaving him no alternative but to spread his thighs in a very nearly obscene manner. Other than that, though, it wasn't a very disagreeable position to be in. It was - given the situation - quite bearable. The only unpleasant thing was the fact that the seat itself was missing, there being only a square frame in its place. Yet Sherlock had to admit that it offered several practical advantages for this type of torture. Whatever worked. Moriarty was no idiot.

 

The rest period – of which Moriarty had accorded him several already – had gone on long enough now that Sherlock's body began to shiver in the damp, chilly air in this strange round room.

The cold sweat that had formed on his skin ran in streams down his back, his chest, and his thighs, dripping into his eyes from the tips of the spikes of hair on his forehead – whenever Moriarty pressed the little red button on the remote control device in his left hand. Which he usually did several times in a row.

 

The pain wasn't unbearable. Sherlock himself demanded certain sacrifices of his body often enough that whatever happened to his transport didn't really bother him. The only thing that irritated him was that the only piece of clothing he was still wearing – an open shirt – was virtually glued to his sweaty back.

 

It wasn't the pain itself, in other words, that really bothered Sherlock. It was more the senselessness of the torment. Moriarty hadn't said a single word since he'd started. Hadn't asked a single question. He just sat there, lounging half on top of a round table – one leg on the floor, the other dangling in the air – and played around with that accursed remote control, a reptilian smile on his face.

 

What was Moriarty's purpose with this procedure? Did he want to bore him to death? Or drive him insane with this complete and utter waste of time? He actually expected more of Moriarty. But Sherlock couldn't make out any motive for his behaviour yet. Was he trying to humiliate Sherlock? He needn't hold his breath, if so. Sherlock's body meant nothing to him. He didn't care whether the electric shocks ran through his arms and legs or focused on his genitals, like now, by means of an especially perfidious contraption consisting of a special ring around his penis and testicles and a mid-sized butt plug with metal fittings.

 

To be sure... the only thing keeping him upright on the chair at the moment were his bonds. He was tired and exhausted. His restless mind – which seesawed between phases of sluggishness and intense activity – had been rubbed raw by Moriarty's blank silence, and his patience was hanging by a very thin thread.

 

He had remained as stubbornly silent as Moriarty so far, as he suspected that Moriarty's actual goal was to make him talk.

 

The rest period had gone on too long now. That couldn't be a good sign. Sherlock steeled himself for the pain which was going to eat its way through his groin like red-hot lava in just a moment, but his mind kept wandering despite him doing his best to maintain his concentration and stop himself from zoning out.

 

Nevertheless, he couldn't help shuddering with unease as he lost himself in the blue flames of the candles burning around the room. His eyes kept being drawn to the stone dish that stood on the table where Moriarty was sitting. Blue flames danced and flickered in the bowl, casting bizarre shadows on the stone walls of the chamber. Sherlock thought at first that they were gas flames, but they burnt too irregularly for that. In a moment of lucidity, he realized it must be alcohol. A suspicion that was confirmed when all of a sudden, a small shot glass appeared in Moriarty's hand, which he used to scoop up some of the burning liquid from the bowl.

 

He toasted Sherlock with an exaggerated gesture and raised the glass to his mouth. The blue, almost transparent flames twisted in front of his face, and Sherlock watched with a horror that he couldn't quite explain as Moriarty waited until the last possible second before blowing out the fire, setting the glass against his lips, and draining it in a single gulp.

 

At the same time, his finger pressed down on the remote control and the first – still faint – wave of pain rippled through Sherlock's lower body. But this time, something was different. Had his body already acclimated to the pain? Or was the pain not getting stronger, but just more... intense? It still hurt, stung, burnt, pricked like a thousand pins, throbbed in cramplike waves through his genitals until he couldn't do anything more than tremble helplessly in his fetters – but all his body registered was the stimulation... he could no longer differentiate between positive and negative inputs.

 

Even though he bit down on his lip in order not to scream, his body began to react. Discomfort and nudity meant nothing to him, but now the moment had arrived that he had feared despite everything else.

 

Pain and pleasure began to merge. A gasp escaped his lips as Moriarty finally jacked up the settings with another dial on the remote control, and his body was again able to interpret the stimulus correctly. Still, his penis remained half-hard when Moriarty finally turned off the device and set it aside.

 

Sherlock took deliberate breaths in and out through his nose. He was ashamed of his erection, but his innermost core wasn't affected by it yet. He gathered himself and set his mind over his body again, as was his habit. If that was what Moriarty was after, he could have it. If his body was the means to the end... he was welcome to it. Gladly! Anything – Moriarty could have anything he wanted from him, as long as it put an end to the torture.

 

Sherlock lifted his head and gave Moriarty what he apparently wanted: a question.

 

"What do you want from me?"

 

But Moriarty just smiled at him coldly and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

Since he didn't say anything, Sherlock went on: "Torture is generally used to gain information. In order to achieve that, it is necessary to ask the victim questions. No questions – no answers – no information. I wouldn't have thought I would need to point that out to _you_ , of all people."

 

Moriarty formed a loose fist with his left hand and rested it against his mouth. "You know, I always thought that was the cardinal sin of all the villains who ever gave it their all on the silver screen: _the speech_." His face screwed into a cheerful, innocent laugh. "And now... I'm sitting here. In my own torture chamber... with my own archenemy, completely at my mercy... and I've realised, to my horror, that I'm actually tempted to do the same thing. It's really very tempting indeed! To reveal one's own ingenious plans... to someone who really knows how to appreciate them..." Moriarty clicked his tongue. "Really... quite tempting."

 

"So?" Sherlock said. "Are you going to give in to the temptation?"

 

Moriarty's act of pretending to think about it was so overblown that Sherlock wasn't surprised when the answer came.

 

"Noooo," Moriarty said, overstretching the vowel.

 

"Do you expect me to try and convince you otherwise?"

 

A diabolical smile appeared on Moriarty's face. "No, Mr Bond. I expect you to die!" He broke out in maniacal laughter that ended as abruptly as it had begun. "My favourite villain. Goldfinger! He didn't give a speech. He didn't want to get any information out of James Bond either. He just wanted him to hop off."

 

"Is that your plan for me as well?"

 

"Oh, the hell with good intentions," Moriarty blurted out, shrugging. "I guess I'll give a speech after all." He giggled. "Of course I'm going to kill you at some point, Sherlock. We both know that. I've already told you that. But not now. Because without you... I'm afraid I'd be bored to tears. Although..." He turned serious, fixing Sherlock with a cold look. "You've got in my way once too often lately. Daddy doesn't like that one bit. And so... my goal is to weaken your mind... your intellect, a little. Just enough to keep things interesting, while preventing you from scuppering my plans the next time."

 

"All this trouble, just for that?" Sherlock asked in a low voice filled with precisely calculated mockery.

 

"Oh, nothing's too good for my archenemy," Moriarty trilled.

 

"I appreciate that," Sherlock returned icily. "And yet... the techniques you've chosen to torture me aren't going to succeed in weakening my mind. You must realise that by now."

 

"Indeed." Moriarty's eyes gleamed greedily, and in a brief moment of panic, Sherlock imagined he saw blue flames flickering in the dark pupils.

 

"Why don't we just skip all this... _foreplay,_ and get to the main event?" Sherlock forced a flattering undertone into his voice and managed to lift one eyebrow coquettishly.

 

"You mean..."

 

"You could assert your authority over my body in a much more pleasant manner," Sherlock proposed.

 

"Yes, I could." A fiendish, disturbed grin played at the corners of Moriarty's lips. "That I could... if I cared anything about your physical shell." He got off the table and dragged it over to Sherlock's chair. There was a laptop on the table, which had been blocked from Sherlock's view by Moriarty's body. Moriarty now opened the computer and tapped a few keys, waking the screen.

 

The entire screen was taken up by a window displaying only an arrow symbol. Apparently, Moriarty was going to show him a video, since he adjusted the laptop so that Sherlock could see it, and clicked on the arrow. Slightly wobbly images began to move across the screen. Then the camera became more steady, and Sherlock realised that there must be a surveillance camera in the room somewhere, since the screen was showing exactly the scene he was currently in. Except he was completely naked in the movie. Otherwise the film was the same as in reality... his half-hard penis, his sweaty limbs, his matted hair, the cables hanging down from his body and leading to a little black box on the floor which Moriarty controlled with the remote control. But Moriarty was nowhere to be seen in the movie. He must be outside of camera range. Sherlock's offer rang out of the speakers loud and clear:

 

"Why don't you defile my body another way?"

 

The same flirtatious, teasing tone he'd attempted to achieve moments ago.

 

The image changed... this time he was wearing a pyjama shirt...

 

"You could amuse yourself with me in other ways."

 

A green shirt...

 

A t-shirt...

 

Entirely naked again...

 

How often had he been here? How many times?

 

Shirt...

 

Naked, but with socks on...

 

Undershirt...

 

How often? How often had he gone through this ordeal? How many nights had he been here? Bitter gall rose in his esophagus.

 

And he'd offered himself to Moriarty every time. Each and every time. What about Moriarty? Had he taken him? How often had he accepted the proposal? How often had he raped him?

 

Even as scene after scene continued to flicker across the screen, Sherlock turned to Moriarty, who stood next to him.

 

"You're wondering how often." Moriarty gave him a cold smile. "Not once."

 

The words echoed in Sherlock's brain, which felt dead. His body meant nothing to him, that was true. Still... to see and hear as he practically threw himself at Moriarty time after time... and not once had he... Something in Sherlock shattered, and he felt hot tears mixing with the cold sweat on his cheeks. His head drooped.

 

"Oh yes..." Moriarty murmured, catching the tears which were about to fall from Sherlock's chin onto the floor.

 

He inspected his damp fingers for a moment before licking the salty moisture from them, to all appearances with great relish. Finally, he bent over to Sherlock, who wished nothing more at that moment than to have his hands free in order to cover his ears so that he didn't have to hear himself offering up his body over and over again. But the words kept forcing their way into his ears, always varying slightly but with the same meaning. He was likewise helpless in the face of Moriarty's malevolent whispers, dripping unadulterated poison into his mind.

 

"Have you ever heard of the phrase _'mindfuck'_ , Sherlock? No? No matter." He leaned in very close to Sherlock and whispered in a hoarse voice: "I don't have any desire to penetrate your _body_. Fucking your _mind_ is much more exciting..."

 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, but he could still see the blue lights in front of him, could still hear his ultimate humiliation, and wished he were dead.

 

**oooOOOoooOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOoooOOOooo**

 

The phrase ' _mindfuck_ ' is used in the song "Planet Schmanet Janet" from "The Rocky Horror Picture Show", amongst other places.

 

_"A mental mindfuck can be nice..."_

 

You can see the lyrics here:

<http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/therockyhorrorpictureshow/planetschmanetjanet.htm>

 

And here is a lovely gif in which Moriarty's pupils really do have flickering flames in them – not blue ones, but you can't have everything.

Original link:

<http://mistresskikisshiphassailed.tumblr.com/post/49226078949/irrevocablysherlocked-vinylandbassdrops-this>

 

 


	10. Pavlov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My everlasting thanks go to SwissMiss for her wonderful translation.

 

**Chapter Nine**

**Pavlov**

 

Trigger warning: Panic attack

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was dusk, and John and Sherlock were standing in the alley behind a nightclub. Sherlock had discovered through meticulous legwork (most of which he'd made John do) that the partner of one of the bartenders worked at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, and thus had access to rare venoms. And traces of an exotic snake venom had been found on the pin that had been stuck in the cash register.

 

There were still several possibilities... the bartender might have been the intended victim, or else she might have been the actual perpetrator.

 

Sherlock wanted to be certain before turning the suspect over to the police, so they hadn't informed Lestrade yet. Instead, they were lurking beside the wheelie bins, keeping an eye on the staff entrance to the nightclub and waiting for the young woman to appear. This was their only lead, since no one knew where she'd been since she left her boyfriend's flat several weeks earlier.

 

As usual, Sherlock was the first to see her coming, but John had also heard her light footsteps.

 

A tall, slender woman approached the door, the keys clicking softly in her hand. John and Sherlock started toward her. But although John was prepared for just about anything and his muscles were primed, the quickness of her reaction still surprised him.

 

No sooner had Sherlock called her name than she whipped around, hurled her handbag at Sherlock's legs, tossed her keys in John's face, pivoted on her heel and sprinted off.

 

The bag and keys only slowed the men down for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for the woman to disappear behind the corner of the building.

 

"She's got spirit!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding pleased by the fact.

 

They turned into a narrow alleyway lined on both sides by houses, garages and warehouses without so much as the smallest gap between them. They were just in time to see the suspect jump up a wall at the end of the lane, actually managing to grab hold of the capping at the top. She pulled herself up and disappeared on the other side.

 

"Sherlock! Give me a leg up!" John called to his friend. "There's no way I'm getting up there otherwise!"

 

"Yes, yes!" Sherlock shouted back, still running at full speed. All of a sudden, the small space was cast in a dirty yellow light that came from the inside stairwell of one of the houses, shining out through one of the many windows. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

 

They were only a few yards away from the wall that the woman had escaped over. John overtook Sherlock, but Sherlock still didn't move.

 

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "Whatever it is... we don't have time for it now!"

 

But Sherlock still didn't respond. He just stood there, completely paralysed, staring at the wall of the warehouse that was lit up by the stairway lights from the neighbouring house.

 

"Sherlock! Dammit!" John barked and ran back to his friend. "She's getting away!" As soon as he reached him, he grabbed Sherlock's shoulder none too gently and shook him hard.

 

As if in slow motion, Sherlock turned his face toward John, making John freeze as well. He'd seen faces like that before, many times. Empty. Hollow. And yet filled with a panic and horror so terrible that the mind couldn't process them.

 

"For God's sake, Sherlock," John said, looking around frantically for whatever was causing his reaction. But he couldn't see anything aside from some graffiti on the warehouse wall.

 

"What's wrong?" John blurted out, deeply disconcerted.

 

He watched as Sherlock took a shaky breath and then said a single word in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere very far away:

 

" _Blue_."

 

John's eyes flickered to the side. Yes... the graffiti was blue. But why should that scare Sherlock so much?

 

"Blue," Sherlock whispered again, and John watched helplessly as his friend's eyes filled with tears.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOooo**

 

John managed to lead Sherlock out to the main road and find a taxi to take him home. Although it must be said that those fifteen minutes it had taken him to convince Sherlock to leave the alley with the blue graffiti and allow himself to be led out were among the worst in his life.

 

Sherlock seemed to have been overwhelmed by a mixture of panic, fear, and resignation, which as good as put him into a catatonic state. He seemed to more or less understand what was said to him, but he was unable to react.

 

Once they were finally home, John shuffled his friend into bed. Sherlock was so compliant that it only made John worry more. Some nameless horror still had hold over Sherlock's eyes, and after weighing the pros and cons, John decided to give him some valerian, which Sherlock swallowed without a word of protest.

 

No matter what substances might be doing such a number on Sherlock's head, the first priority was to calm him down. There was no way a little valerian could do any more harm.

 

But over the next half hour, Sherlock simply stared silently at the wall and held John's fingers so tight that it took an effort for John not to cry out in surprise at the pain. He finally settled on sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed and petting his friend's dark curls with his free hand in gentle, soothing motions, until at least some of the tension was released with a great shudder that shook Sherlock's entire body.

 

His eyes then focused on John with an almost desperate intensity, and from his lips came a single, whispered word: "Stay."

 

There was no need to think about it. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and Sherlock clung to him as if he were his only haven in a hostile world. John felt a muffled sob against his neck, where Sherlock had hidden his face. He continued stroking Sherlock's hair and the sobbing slowly faded away. John buried his nose in the dark curls and ghosted a gentle kiss over Sherlock's temple. Another shiver ran through the gaunt body, although it did have the benefit of leaving his friend looser and more relaxed.

 

Soft lips moved against his ear, causing a pleasant tingling in John's body.

 

"John..." Sherlock sighed, so low as to be barely audible but clearly pleased, and fell asleep in John's arms.

 

John laid him down carefully on his pillows and covered him up. Then he rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He was going to have to contact Mycroft. But that could wait until morning.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Since John had spent the night on the couch so that he'd be able to hear if Sherlock needed him, when he woke the next morning he was groggy and his back hurt. He was still sitting on the couch, stretching out in an optimistic attempt to loosen his cramped muscles and get them to cooperate with the rest of his body when Sherlock entered the living room – brimming with energy and in a rare good mood.

 

"Good morning, John!" he greeted him. "What's for breakfast? I'm starving." He peered hopefully into the kitchen.

 

John could only stare at him, his jaw hanging open.

 

"What is it?" Sherlock retorted. "Oh... you... the couch..." His eyebrows drew together. "Why did you sleep on the couch? Did you nod off in front of the television?" He gave him a penetrating look. "No... that's not it... For heaven's sake! Why is my brain as slow as a snail today? You... you slept here because... you were worried. Who were you worried about? There isn't anyone but me who... Why in the world were you worried about me?" Sherlock exclaimed in astonishment.

 

It took a great deal of effort for John to shake off his bewilderment. He didn't quite manage it entirely straight off, since the first thing he said was, "Don't you remember anything at all?"

 

"Is there something in particular I'm supposed to remember?" Sherlock asked slowly.

 

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, stunned.

 

"Look, it doesn't make things any clearer for me if you don't say anything other than my name in that tone of voice," Sherlock remarked reproachfully. "Why should I remember yesterday in particular? Nothing special happened... We were just in that alley where..." Sherlock's voice trailed off as an expression of profound confusion appeared on his face. "We were following her... and then..." He broke off again. His eyes flitted around as if searching for something before landing on John, who was still on the couch. "We did catch her, didn't we?"

 

John shook his head. "No... she went over a wall and you..." John bit his lip uncertainly. How much should he tell? Should he lie? He decided to do both. "You weren't feeling well. We had to abandon the pursuit." Then he had an idea and slapped his hand against his forehead. "I'm such an idiot! I was supposed to report back to Lestrade yesterday!"

 

"Why should I have fallen ill yesterday? I feel fine! Better than I have in ages..." Sherlock fell silent again, and John saw his gaze turn inward.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

But Sherlock wasn't listening to him. In his mind's eye, hazy, distorted images arose. Blue... walls... a picture... graffiti? More blue... water? Screams of pain... his own? Or were those strangers' voices? The dark corridor in his parents' house... flames... a man who drank fire... who became a flame himself...

 

Sherlock gasped for air and shook his head. It was impossible to separate reality from fantasy, memories of actual events from nightmares.

 

What was even more disturbing than the origin of the images in his head, was the fact that there was a span of time he simply could not recall.

 

At least nothing especially dramatic seemed to have happened. Lestrade could track down the suspect himself; the fact that she'd run away was practically an admission of guilt even if certain details weren't entirely clear yet. He was a little relieved that John had been with him this time. At least he was spared the accusation of having taken drugs.

 

"Good," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together. "In that case, let's have breakfast and then you can go to Lestrade and explain everything to him."

 

John sighed. "If you want." At least that gave him the excuse he needed to get out of the house and go see Mycroft. He didn't want to call him this time, preferring to speak to Sherlock's brother privately.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After John had apologised profusely to Lestrade and reported all of Sherlock's deductions, he got into a taxi and took it to the Diogenes Club, where Mycroft had said he would meet him. This time at least he knew where to go and arrived at the room where Mycroft was waiting for him, all without being molested by the security guards.

 

Mycroft was just pouring himself a drink from one of the obviously expensive bottles on the drinks cart when John entered.

 

"I have the sneaking suspicion I'm going to need this," Mycroft said. "Can I interest you in a drop as well?"

 

John was sorely tempted, but he didn't want to be in Mycroft's debt any more than necessary. "No, thank you."

 

"No?" Mycroft's eyebrows twitched briefly. "Up to you. Fine – then have a seat, won't you?" He indicated one of the leather armchairs, waiting until John had sat down before choosing one of the other chairs standing opposite him. He sipped at the caramel-coloured liquid then said, "So... what has Sherlock done now?"

 

"He..." John began, only to fall silent because he had no idea what to say. "He's not doing very well. I think he's... in trouble," he said, annoyed at himself for how inadequately he was describing the situation and how trivial it sounded, even to him.

 

"I'm afraid you're going to have to give me more to go on than that, Doctor," Mycroft replied with a nasal twang. "If that's all that's bothering you, you've simply described Sherlock's status quo and are thus wasting my time."

 

"It's... much more than that. Sherlock... is acting oddly."

 

Mycroft barked out a short laugh.

 

"More oddly than usual," John corrected himself. "You remember when I called you because he had that... that panic attack and kept muttering _'dark'_?"

 

Mycroft sat up a bit straighter. "Indeed I do," he said. "What is setting off the panic this time?"

 

"How did you..." The words fell out of John's mouth before he'd even thought about it, but then he sighed and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Never mind." Then he took a deep breath. "Now it's the colour blue. If I didn't know any better, I'd say... he's acting as if... it's almost like a conditioned response. Similar to a Pavlovian reflex."

 

After that, John was able to report all of his observations from the nightclub and the alley without stopping, including how Sherlock had reacted to the blue light and the blue graffiti. Mycroft listened attentively, his eyes sharp.

 

Once John was done, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his drink.

 

"Why are you coming to me with this?"

 

"I thought I should let you know... maybe... " John was a little thrown by Mycroft's rather indifferent attitude.

 

Mycroft fiddled with his glass before speaking, without looking at John: "What makes you think I don't know about this already?"

 

"Why did you make me go through this whole song and dance if you already know everything?"

 

"Because I believe your opinion on the matter is of no small import."

 

John sucked in his bottom lip. "Fine. So you already know. Although... given that you're supposed to worry about him constantly, you're sitting there rather calmly. Why aren't you doing anything?"

 

Mycroft gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Whatever makes you think I haven't done anything?"

 

"Then you haven't been very successful!"

 

Now Mycroft pulled a face that made it look as if he'd eaten a lemon, which provided John with a great deal of satisfaction.

 

"You have put your finger precisely on the sore point as usual, Dr Watson." Mycroft acknowledged the hit with a nod. "However, it is simply a matter of time now before the problem is solved. Keep an eye on Sherlock in the meantime. Could you do that for me, John? Unfortunately, I cannot have eyes and ears everywhere at once."

 

Mycroft's obvious concern threw John for a loop, and he murmured his agreement. Mycroft stood in order to say good-bye, and John rose from his chair as well.

 

"You're not going to tell me what's going on, are you?" John said.

 

"No," Mycroft replied with an unpleasant smile. "I'm not."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoo**

 

Here is a picture of some nice blue graffiti:

Original link:

<http://www.ekosystem.org/0_Images/Street2/ukingdom/roid_msk_blue_london.jpg>

 

 

 


	11. Fire and Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all send our thanks to SwissMiss for her brilliant translation.

 

**Chapter Ten**

**Fire and Ice**

 

Trigger warnings: Bastinado, caning, wax play

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoo**

 

Sebastian peered into the round chamber through the little window in the door.

 

The bloodcurdling screams of pain coming from the hogtied body didn't affect him in the slightest.

 

But there was something else that did concern him.

 

The interest which his boss was showing for his _'playmate'_ was slowly but surely surpassing a certain level, almost approaching obsession at times.

 

Sebastian didn't approve of the fact that his boss was eschewing the finer methods of psychological torture in favour of the rather brutish physical varieties. It all came across as rather... _intimate_ , in Sebastian's estimation – and he didn't like that. He didn't like it one bit.

 

What he did like, on the other hand, was the lethal elegance with which his boss handled the cane. The precision necessary to land such accurate blows, to imbue each strike with just the right amount of pressure... Sebastian had the greatest respect for that. It was a spectacle he never tired of. Sebastian had instructed many men in this particular skill, but none of them had achieved this degree of perfection. Jim Moriarty was truly a model student in that regard.

 

Sebastian didn't understand a great deal about theatre or ballet, but for him, Moriarty's performance was like a kind of dance. A dance for which the tortured cries of the victim provided the rhythm and the melody.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoo**

 

When Sherlock woke up, he was already sitting ramrod-straight in his bed. His heart was hammering against his chest as if it were trying to break free, his pulse was racing, and his forehead was damp with sweat.

 

The nightmare that had held him in its grip this time still seemed so vivid and realistic, as if...

 

Sherlock swallowed hard and forced himself to calm down. What had it been about? A room? Yes, a round room... a couch... no, more like a divan. Had there been restraints? Yes... soft, padded leather cuffs around his wrists. A belt around his torso, holding him down on the divan. He'd been on his stomach, his wrists tied behind his back. His legs...

 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating hard.

 

His legs... Oh, yes – angled up so that the soles of his feet were facing up toward the ceiling, and... bound... but how? He hadn't been able to see, but it had felt like a padded bar. Why had everything been so soft and comfortable in his dream?

 

Sherlock furrowed his brow, trying to understand. He probed deeper into the nameless horror that had torn him out of his slumber.

 

Wet... had his ankles been tied to the bar with wet cloths? But why? Hadn't he asked that in the dream as well? Had there been a voice? An answer? _No marks..._

 

A faint snort escaped Sherlock's lips. Quite a nice idea his subconscious had come up with there. Tied down without leaving marks... by using wet cloths. The same way a wet cloth didn't leave any strangulation marks on the neck and throat of the victim.

 

But those words... Did he know that voice? … _No marks_... had there been more? He remembered a hiss. A hissing sound in the air. And then the pain! The sudden, burning, stinging pain that started in the soles of his feet and ate its way into his gut.

 

Sherlock gasped for air.

 

Bastinado.

 

Beating the soles of the feet. An old method of punishment from Eastern Asia. The hissing sound? Ah yes, of course... the sound of the instrument that was used being whipped through the air to prepare the stroke and intimidate the victim. A riding crop? No... more likely a cane.

 

Sherlock frowned again.

 

Why should he be haunted by foot whipping? He'd never studied the topic in any depth – especially not lately. All he knew was that it required a special skill to perform, as otherwise the bones of the foot could break under the treatment, which could lead to the victim being crippled in some instances.

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

What utter hogwash dreams could be!

 

He tossed the bedcovers vigorously aside. A tea would do him good and drive the last remnants of that absurd shock from his overstimulated brain. How could he have assumed for even a second that the dream had been real?

 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

 

Just as his feet touched the floor, a sharp, completely unexpected pain shot through him. It felt like burning tongues licking up his legs. A cry escaped his throat, and he collapsed on the floor.

 

One thought, one image, one voice, one man flashed into his mind at the precise moment the pain struck:

 

_Moriarty._

 

He shook his head immediately. That was impossible. Of course Moriarty would be the first one to occur to him in a situation like this. But there was no way. It was just a dream. Nothing but a dream. Moriarty would never be able to kidnap him out of his own bed.

 

Sherlock chuckled softly, but it sounded fearful and unconvincing, even to him. He cautiously touched the bottoms of his feet. They hurt, but he couldn't see anything beyond a slight redness. The reason he fell wasn't so much because the pain was so strong, but more the fact that he hadn't been prepared for it.

 

But where did the redness and the pain come from? Was it an allergic reaction? Maybe to the new shoes he'd just started wearing the past week? Was something like that possible?

 

He shrugged. Something was stopping him from investigating more closely. He wiggled his toes carefully. Everything seemed to be functioning normally. What in the world was wrong with him? His mind shied away from answering that question too.

 

Slowly, he tried to stand. It went well enough. The first step was... also bearable.

 

Setting one foot gingerly in front of the other, he made his way into the kitchen.

 

John was standing in front of the cooker, poking around in a pan.

 

"Are you up already? Do you want some scrambled egg?" Then he turned around and saw Sherlock's halting steps. His forehead wrinkled. "Since when have you been limping?"

 

"Since just now. Stubbed my toe," Sherlock said, having no idea why he was lying.

 

"Ah, that explains the shout. I wondered..." John trailed off. Sherlock could tell John had been worried but hadn't wanted to act on it because he still secretly suspected Sherlock was taking drugs. "Ice pack?" John finally asked, turning back to the pan.

 

"Maybe later," Sherlock said, limping on into the living room.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOoo**

 

There it was again. The room. The round room and the blue light.

 

Both recognition and a simultaneous lack of recognition flashed through Sherlock's brain.

 

Moriarty's presence surprised him, yet it was expected.

 

"Oh... you recognise it... you're remembering..." Moriarty's soft voice whispered. Eager... fascinated.

 

"A dream," Sherlock murmured, his tongue heavy. Drugs? Were Moriarty's drugs responsible for his condition, and for John's suspicions? "I remember this dream. I... I've had it before."

 

Moriarty chuckled, amused. "Call it whatever you want. A dream, a memory, a vision... déjà-vu. I don't really care. I only regret that our time together is coming to an end." He sighed in an excessively dramatic manner. "Time flies... when you're having fun. Don't you agree?"

 

"I've been in less boring situations," Sherlock retorted, his voice weak. He wasn't tied down, and yet he was still unable to move.

 

Moriarty raised a single eyebrow. "Really?" he asked with icy courtesy. "Then I won't keep you on tenterhooks any longer." The words were cool, unemotional, and precise. There wasn't a single whiff of his usual eccentric affectation, and Sherlock wondered whether it had really been so clever of him to antagonise his adversary.

 

Sherlock's eyes followed Moriarty as he silently walked around Sherlock's pallet, until he stopped in front of his bare feet. Sherlock only realised at that moment that he was completely naked. But just as Moriarty didn't seem to draw any particular pleasure from Sherlock's nudity, it didn't cause Sherlock any particular shame either.

 

Moriarty examined the soles of Sherlock's feet, taking stock of them in a somewhat bored manner. His feet... present and past, dream and reality swirled together in Sherlock's sluggish brain. What was so special about his feet... Oh! The pain. The foot whipping. Some of the pieces of the puzzle began to come together, yet the larger picture remained murky and obscured.

 

Moriarty smirked. "You really do remember... but you aren't sure whether your memories coincide with reality. Interesting." His left hand moved toward Sherlock's foot and touched his toes gently, while his thumb cautiously stroked the sole. "Do your footy-wooties still hurt?" he asked in a mocking tone.

 

"No," Sherlock replied, steeling himself, yet still unable to entirely suppress a cry when Moriarty's thumb nail bored mercilessly into the sole of his foot. The memory of the past torment was worse than the sharp twinge, and made Sherlock break out in a cold sweat – entirely against his will, and flying in the face of all reason.

 

"You shouldn't lie, Sherlock," Moriarty reproached him with undisguised sarcasm. "You're one of the gooooood guys."

 

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his comment.

 

Moriarty sighed and went over to the table. There was a candelabra there, holding thick blue candles that burnt with blue flames. Sherlock's stomach squeezed together with anxious apprehension. Annoying. Why was he so skittish?

 

"You ask me that every time..." Moriarty complained. "Can't you think of anything else?" He took the candelabra from the table and went back to where Sherlock was lying. "You know, I truly believed it would be amusing to kidnap you every night so that you could help keep the boredom at bay. But that's how it is with wishes... they get a little tarnished once they're fulfilled." He stopped where he was and put his hand over his mouth. "Oh, don't think I blame you for my continued _ennui_. No, no... you were a picture-perfect victim. You met each and every one of my expectations."

 

In spite of his racing pulse – why was the presence of the blue candle discomfiting him so? – Sherlock managed to deliver a halfway glib retort: "Well, that's a great weight off my shoulders at any rate."

 

A smile of acknowledgment passed across Moriarty's lips. "I admire your insolence. Always have. At the same time, it's what annoys me the most about you." He bared his teeth and took one of the candles out of its holder. "Beeswax candles – so I've been told – burn the hottest... compared to other candles. I wonder whether the additives that cause the flame to burn blue have any influence on it."

 

Without warning, Moriarty dumped the melted wax that had gathered in the candle over the right side of Sherlock's chest.

 

Sherlock bit down on his lips in order not to scream out loud. Tears gathered behind his closed eyelids.

 

Hot. So hot. The burning heat pierced his skin like a thousand red-hot needles, until it started to cool and the pain ebbed away, leaving nothing but a dull glow. Sherlock's mouth opened and he struggled to gasp for air.

 

"Unpleasant, isn't it?" Moriarty cooed.

 

"It's not so bad," Sherlock gritted out from between his clenched teeth.

 

Moriarty laughed. "Precious... that heroic bravado always makes me laugh. It's so... unnecessary." He returned the first candle to its holder and took out another one. "But I admit, that was rather uncouth of me. A little more finesse wouldn't be amiss." The second candle hovered over Sherlock's left pectoral then tilted slightly, allowing the hot wax to fall one drop at a time onto his nipple.

 

It felt like tiny, painful bites. As soon as the sting from the first one started to fade, it was overtaken by the next red-hot drop, the next bite. Each and every drop landed with laser-sharp precision on his chest, until he felt as if he were being branded. A weak twitch was the only defence his body was able to offer, meaning he was completely at the mercy of Moriarty's perverse game.

 

It wasn't until a layer of wax completely covered his nipple that the pain receded, as the tortured flesh was insulated by the wax and protected from the rest of the drips.

 

Moriarty became aware of this as well, and set the candle back in its holder. There was something almost tender in the way he touched the layer of wax and appraised his work.

 

"It's too bad I can't whip it off you," he remarked, longing creeping into his voice.

 

"What's stopping you?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Hm... you'd like to know, wouldn't you?" Moriarty scratched at the wax with the nail of his left index finger, uncovering the nipple.

 

"Am I correct in assuming that you're not going to tell me?" Sherlock pressed. "And that you're also not going to tell me what you have planned?"

 

"Oh, I've already told you all that. Many times. You just don't remember. A quite useful little side effect of the drug you're given during every abduction." Moriarty continued speaking in a conversational tone as he splashed more wax onto Sherlock's nipple.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Once again, Sebastian watched the proceedings that evening through the little window in the door.

 

He saw the concentrated look in Jim Moriarty's deep, dark eyes, furious that it was directed at the prisoner, who was completely unworthy of it.

 

The subject hadn't earned that look, nor had he earned such utterly focused devotion. No one had earned that look. No one. Sebastian's hands curled into fists.

 

Moriarty's obsession with the prisoner was taking on dimensions that made Sebastian deeply uncomfortable. Nothing good was going to come of it. It might even spell his boss's doom.

 

Sebastian saw his boss lick his lips when the first drops of wax landed on the shaft and head of the prisoner's penis. Screams filled the room. Soon there would only be sobs and whimpers.

 

Following one last grim glance at the scene, Sebastian closed the window. He'd seen enough. He didn't want to watch his boss degrade himself with the subject any longer. Didn't want to watch him concentrate on the subject with a single-mindedness that Sebastian didn't understand and which therefore repulsed him. How could his boss stoop so low, lower himself so far? Sebastian couldn't understand why Moriarty hadn't left the dirty business of torture to him. He wasn't just an expert in killing. After all, he was the one who had taught Moriarty how to handle the cane. Why did his boss insist so strongly on getting his own hands dirty... and all without a single thing to show for it?

 

That was the worst part of the whole affair. As far as Sebastian knew, this entire venture hadn't brought forth any fruits. All the trouble... all the risk... and for what? Nothing.

 

Sebastian decided to forget about his subordinate rank for a moment and have a word with his commanding officer - within the limits of the allowable, of course.

 

oooOOOOoooOOOooOOOooo

 

Uncried tears burned behind Sherlock's eyelids. The senselessness and the monotony of the torture were wearing him down. Moriarty hardly said a word, and when he did, it was something trivial. Or maybe not. Sherlock wasn't really listening anymore. The round room seemed to be smothering him, even though the air was cool and relatively fresh. The pervasive blue light triggered a kind of disorientation in him, the longer he was exposed to it.

 

That was why he'd closed his eyes and retreated into himself. Yet even deep inside, there was no calming centre, just fear and nameless horror.

 

His screams had faded, his throat felt raw, and he knew that the sounds he made every time Moriarty dripped wax on him - again and again and again - were close to whimpers. He was ashamed, even though he knew he shouldn't feel any shame for it.

 

After a while, the worst part wasn't even the wax; it was the ice cubes that Moriarty started using after he scratched the still-warm layer of wax from Sherlock's skin in order to free his tenderest parts for the next attack.

 

Soon, his body could no longer differentiate between heat and icy cold, becoming caught in a vicious cycle of pain and cramps. The cramps in his muscles hurt just as much as the wax and the ice. Damned to motionlessness, his limbs rebelled by reacting to the external stimuli with heavy spasms, which eventually led to his muscles seizing up throughout his body.

 

He barely noticed Moriarty carefully removing the wax from his body, even going so far as to clean him up a bit with a damp hand towel. It wasn't until his tormentor dabbed at his face with the towel that he opened his eyes to look into those fathomless eyes.

 

One of the repressed tears escaped the corner of his eye, which Moriarty, of course, couldn't help but notice.

 

With an almost tender gesture, he wiped the tear from Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

 

"There, there..." Moriarty whispered into his ear, all false concern. "No need to cry... all good things must come to an end, because without an end there can be no beginnings."

 

Sherlock took it all with equanimity. The caress, the mockery. His body and mind were both exhausted, all of his energy reserves used up.

 

Moriarty straightened and turned to the single door in the room.

 

"Seb!" he barked.

 

A man entered immediately. Sherlock looked him over, committed him to memory. Tall, athletic build, his bearing... ah, a soldier. But what kind? Dishwater blond hair, military cut, broad jaw... Was that a scar on his cheek? Moriarty's voice called him back from his thoughts.

 

"They say you should always stop when you're having the most fun. And as a parting gift, I'll be giving him the injection myself today."

 

"Boss..." It sounded like an objection. A respectful one, but still...

 

"I said, I'll give him the injection myself! Does that need any comment?!" Moriarty's voice had taken on a cold, hard edge and even become a little louder.

 

Seb handed Moriarty a black box without batting an eyelash.

 

"Thank you," he said, the light scorn audible. "Now was that so hard?"

 

"Boss..." Sebastian began again. "I think we should proceed according to the same..."

 

"DID I ASK YOU FOR YOUR OPINION?" Moriarty screamed at an unexpectedly high volume. "I'M WAITING! DID I?"

 

Seb continued to appear thoroughly unimpressed. He didn't even blink.

 

"No, sir," he answered, calmly stoic.

 

Moriarty turned back to Sherlock, visibly irritated, and removed the prepared syringe from the black box.

 

"I'm surrounded by idiots," he muttered under his breath, sounding extremely annoyed. He checked the syringe and applied pressure to it, waiting until some of the clear liquid inside flowed out of the tip of the needle. Then he took Sherlock's left arm and placed the needle against the inside of his elbow. "This is going to pinch," he said cheerfully and jabbed him.

 

As soon as the contents of the syringe mixed with Sherlock's blood, he found he was no longer able to keep his eyes open. He lost consciousness shortly afterwards.

 

oooOOOoooOOOOoooOOooo

 

Once Sebastian was sure the prisoner was no longer conscious, he tried to present his concerns again.

 

"They'll find the puncture mark. We should have stuck with..."

 

Moriarty turned to him. It was clear that he was having a hard time keeping himself under control. Sebastian felt far from comfortable now, but if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that you never showed fear in front of the boss.

 

"Moran." Cold. Quiet. Dangerous. "What is your problem? Go on, say what's on your mind. I'm listening. But just this once, and only because it's you."

 

"The puncture mark. It's too risky. They'll notice. After we went to all this trouble... it's too risky," Sebastian repeated.

 

To his surprise, Moriarty grinned, a cold, ugly leer.

 

"The risk is perfectly calculated... I'm going to get what I want after all."

 

"Which is what?" Sebastian asked. Not that it was any of his business or even interested him, really, but this one time, he wanted to know the reason behind the assignment. He didn't want to make any mistakes that might jeopardise the entire operation or endanger his boss.

 

"What it is?" Moriarty looked his henchman over and bit his lip thoughtfully. "In a word: information," he finally answered. "Sherlock... couldn't give it to me, wouldn't ever have given it to me, in fact, even if I'd asked for it." He shrugged. "And it would have been rather rude to ask him directly." A gleam appeared in his eyes. Greedy and a little disturbing. "But I know someone who won't have any choice but to give me what I want - even if I need to strike a bargain in order to get it. A nice little side effect will also be that in doing so, I'll probably succeed in driving a wedge between certain people."

 

Sebastian's darkest fears became awful certainty through those words.

 

"You WANT to be caught!" he cried, dumbfounded.

 

Moriarty watched him, amused. "My goodness... an emotional outburst from my trusty soldier. Who would have thought. Yes, maybe I do want that... but don't worry, Sebastian. Nothing will happen to me... this is all part of a much larger game than this here... and it will be played on a much larger playing field..."

 

"Then what was all of this for?" Sebastian asked with a brief gesture that encompassed the room, the blue candles, the motionless body.

 

Moriarty buried his hands in his trouser pockets and shrugged. "An experiment... a distraction... a test... a little preliminary groundwork," he answered, sounding a little bored. "Always with the possibility that this might have been enough. But it wasn't." His expression brightened and his voice took on a sing-song quality. "Isn't that fantastic? That much more fun for me-hee!"

 

He took his left hand out of his pocket and handed Sebastian a little ball of clear plastic wrap. Sebastian felt it cautiously. Capsules? He gave his boss a questioning look.

 

"Yes," Moriarty said. "This was the last time. Hide that in his flat. Exactly where I told you to."

 

"Sure thing, boss," Sebastian agreed.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Information on the practise of bastinado or foot whipping can be found here:

 

[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foot_whipping](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foot_whipping%20%20%20)

 


	12. Trust is Good...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the amazing SwissMiss

 

**Chapter Eleven**

**Trust is Good...**

**Chapter Notes: Trigger warning: Drug use**

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John was taking his time over breakfast that morning. It was Sunday, and he wanted to enjoy the day to the fullest.

 

If only he weren't so worried about Sherlock. His general health hadn't been very good for weeks now. And that despite the fact that he'd been sleeping more than John had ever known him to. Still, he seemed wrung out, simply not functioning at the top of his game. John didn't even want to think about the panic attacks.

 

Something was gnawing at Sherlock, eating him up inside, and John hoped to God it wasn't drugs, as his flatmate had assured him over and over.

 

John was inclined to believe him too: even though some of the symptoms might point to drug abuse, others really didn't. Much more disturbing was the fact that Sherlock absolutely refused to give up the bloody nicotine patches.

 

Maybe he should use the day to talk to him again... convince him to stay away from cigarettes and nicotine.

 

He sighed softly and had just started buttering his second piece of toast when he heard Sherlock's footsteps in the hall. He automatically checked the temperature of the teapot with his hand. Yes - it was still warm. He got up and went into the kitchen to get a second cup for Sherlock.

 

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said when his friend slumped past him into the living room, yawning loudly.

 

When John didn't receive any reply beyond a second yawn, he took the orange marmalade out of the cabinet. Sherlock had a weakness for it and often let himself be talked into eating half a piece of toast with its aid.

 

John returned to the living room armed with the jar of marmalade and the cup. He found Sherlock already sitting in his usual chair - still in t-shirt and pyjama trousers - with both elbows propped on the table and his head buried in his hands.

 

"Did you not sleep well again?" John asked in concern as he joined Sherlock at the table.

 

"Yes... no... I don't know," came Sherlock's muffled voice from behind his hands. He leaned back, scrubbed his hands over his face several times, and let his arms fall to the table. "Everything hurts," he whinged, and John couldn't suppress a solicitous grimace.

 

"Maybe it would help if..." he began as he let his eyes sweep over Sherlock, automatically checking for any signs of illness. He stopped when he got to the crook of Sherlock's left arm. There was a very obvious red spot there. A red spot with a darker spot in the centre. Right where a vein clearly showed through Sherlock's pale skin.

 

Understanding and comprehension began to set in. At the same time, the doctor's concern faded and was replaced by anger the likes of which he hadn't experienced in a long time.

 

"I don't believe it!" John exclaimed, shaking with fury.

 

Sherlock gave him a dull, blank look. "What?"

 

"Just how stupid do you think I am?!" John spat as loud as he could.

 

"What is it?" Sherlock's voice became louder as well. "What?"

 

John bit down on his lips before he started ranting: "How arrogant would you have to be... I'm a doctor, dammit! I think I know what a needle mark looks like!"

 

"Needle... what are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, clearly confused.

 

"Playing stupid really isn't going to help you any more!" John huffed, beside himself with anger. "And to think I was worried about you!"

 

Sherlock's blank look only made John angrier. Finally, Sherlock's eyes followed the direction of John's gaze, sliding down his body until they landed on the slight reddening on the inside of his arm. A small red spot in the middle of which the track mark of a needle was clearly visible, if you knew what to look for.

 

Sherlock's mind went blank for a moment. A single sentence played on an infinite loop: _"It can't be - it can't be - it..."_

 

"How- how did that get there?" Sherlock stammered after what seemed like an eternity, during which he was unable to move. Vague memories of dreams (they were dreams, weren't they?) shook him. Shook his confidence in himself. "I... It wasn't me!" He could hear the panic in his own voice, but John didn't seem to notice through his righteous indignation.

 

"And I'm supposed to believe that, am I? Seriously?" John laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh, and it made Sherlock shiver. If John didn't believe him anymore... what (or rather: WHO) was left for him?

 

"It wasn't me!" he swore, his voice raw.

 

John shook his head. The out-of-place smile still distorted his face.

 

"You must think I'm completely cracked." Then something like professional curiosity flickered in his eyes. "How long has it been going on?"

 

Sherlock slammed his hand flat against the table, making the dishes jump and clatter. There must be some way for him to get through to John.

 

"I am not taking any drugs!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, but John wouldn't budge.

 

"Your symptoms tell a different story," he remarked, unmoved. "Where is it?"

 

"I'm not using! I'm clean!" Sherlock yelled again. Slowly but surely, a nauseating sense of despair began to overcome him.

 

John looked at him with barely disguised disgust. "Stop trying to take me for a fool! Where have you hidden it?"

 

"I haven't hidden anything!" Sherlock said emphatically, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. John didn't believe him. He'd lost the last anchor he had in his life.

 

John's lips curled in derision.

 

"We'll see about that..." he murmured, turned to the bookcase and started pulling books randomly from the shelves, leafing through them and putting them back. No... not randomly... he only took out books about weapons, drugs, poisons, medicine... did John really think he'd hide his drugs in a place like that? Apparently so.

 

Still, the question forced its way out of Sherlock's mouth: "What... John... what are you doing?"

 

"I'm going to find the bloody drugs if I have to turn the entire flat upside-down!" John replied grimly, now inspecting Sherlock's violin case.

 

Sherlock had slouched down in his chair and watched John helplessly as he searched the living room and kitchen in a highly unprofessional and unstructured - if energetic - manner.

 

After he'd given all of the couch cushions a thorough inspection, his eye happened to fall on the wall and the spray-painted smiley face.

 

He shook his head once, twice, three times, before marching silently into the bathroom without so much as a glance at Sherlock, returning to the living room with a long, thin pair of tweezers in his hand.

 

Sherlock watched in disbelief as John walked straight over to the smiley face and poked around in the bullet holes with the tweezers. Although he had to stretch a bit, the height didn't pose much of a challenge to him.

 

"Your arrogance is really unbelievable," John hissed furiously. "Just because I'm a little short... I'll let you in on a little secret, Sherlock. I'm not a dwarf or a hobbit and I can even stand on a chair if the situation's serious enough!"

 

"John, that's nothing more than a waste of time. I assure you..." Sherlock began, only to be interrupted by John, who was checking the fourth or fifth bullet hole.

 

"Oh, is that right? And what's this then?" John asked with a coldness Sherlock had never heard from him before. "Pixie dust?" John pulled the tweezers all the way out of the hole and held his prize out toward Sherlock. Several small plastic capsules in a cellophane baggie.

 

All the air went out of Sherlock's lungs. His brain went offline.

 

It couldn't be!

 

It simply could not be!

 

He hadn't hidden that baggie there!

 

But... hadn't he experienced several blackouts in the past few weeks?

 

How competent was he really?

 

"Nice hiding place. Suits you," John declared with chilly approval.

 

"I... I..." Sherlock stuttered.

 

"How is this going to proceed?" John asked. It wasn't exactly unfriendly, but his eyes remained cold.

 

"I... I don't know how that got there."

 

"You cannot be serious," John exclaimed testily.

 

"It wasn't me!" Sherlock insisted once again. It was all he had left: his faith in himself... if he lost that too...

 

"Who was it then? The tooth fairy? The Easter bunny?" John mocked him.

 

"I - AM - NOT - TAKING - DRUGS!" Sherlock screamed and upended the table with a sudden surge of rage.

 

The dishes slid off and crashed to the floor, where they shattered with a loud crash.

 

Sherlock stood in front of the wreckage, breathing heavily. He didn't even remember standing up. His burning gaze turned on John.

 

John simply watched him. Calm, cool, calculating.

 

"Fine..." he said finally. "Then you won't mind submitting to a drug test."

 

"No. Not at all," Sherlock replied with restraint. He held his right arm out to John. "Here..."

 

John paused a moment, then went into the bathroom to get a needle to take a blood sample.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

I would like to take a moment here to express my profound gratitude to the following people:

 

-M- (who I told this story to when it was in its infancy and who said I "absolutely had to write it")

 

glowworm (who was good enough to read the first drafts of each chapter and encouraged me and told me "how amazing the story was going to be")

 

justfoolingaround (who I talked with online about hiding places for drugs and whose ideas - although I didn't end up using them - set me on the right path)

 

PadBlack (who I also discussed the story with and who waited patiently even though I made her drool over the story for months)

 

and last but not least: my dearly beloved husband, who not only exhibited the patience of an angel in putting up with my nattering on about hiding places for drugs and the depth of bullet holes (and the question of how deep inside the earth a bunker would be), but also made suggestions - which I also didn't end up using - but which ended up leading to the idea with the smiley face during our conversation.

 

 


	13. Wreckage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the amazing SwissMiss!!!

 

**Chapter Twelve**

**Wreckage**

 

John tried to call Mike on the way to St. Bart's but was unable to reach him. He sighed. He hated asking Molly for another favour. Oh, she'd be very helpful when he explained she'd be helping Sherlock, but that was exactly the reason he was hesitant to go to her with his request. Sherlock knew that Molly had a crush on him and had taken advantage of that for his own purposes more than once without giving anything in return other than a few empty compliments from his _"charm offensive"_ box that he didn't really mean.

 

John didn't want to take advantage of Molly even more, but the way things looked he didn't have any other choice. He sighed again and entered her number.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Is Sherlock coming too?" Molly asked as she took the syringe with Sherlock's blood from John.

 

"Erm... no. He had something else to do," John said, feeling uncomfortable about the lie.

 

Unsurprisingly, the hopeful light promptly disappeared from Molly's eyes. She blinked a moment then tried to cover up her disappointment with a tiny, forced laugh.

 

"Right, of course... how silly of me. I should have known. Always on the go, Sherlock." She cleared her throat. "Right. What are we... looking for?" She waved the syringe in her hand.

 

"Drugs," John answered curtly.

 

"Okay. We can do that," Molly said with another small smile, a real one this time, and started preparing the instruments she would need.

 

John caught himself shifting his weight from one leg to the other and had to force himself to stand still.

 

"Molly..."

 

"Yes?" She glanced up at him.

 

"Thanks."

 

He was met with a bewildered smile. "Oh... it's... my pleasure to do it..."

 

"For Sherlock, I know," John blurted out before he could swallow the words back down. "I mean... it is Sunday, after all... You must have had better things to do than this..." he said, desperately trying to salvage what he could.

 

But Molly's cheeks had already turned red. "No... no, it's fine. Sherlock... I'm pretty sure everyone's noticed by now that I... and Sherlock knows it since Christmas too... and it doesn't make any difference to him. But you know that better than anyone."

 

John licked his lips, a nervous gesture. "What do you mean?"

 

Molly gave him a soft look, full of sympathy, before returning to her analysis.

 

"You'd do anything for him too, wouldn't you? I mean, you're standing here in the lab on a Sunday too, doing something for him, even though you probably had better things to do."

 

"That's different. This is for a case," John lied quickly.

 

"If you say so," Molly said with a funny smile.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The substance in the capsules was easily analysed, and they soon discovered it was cocaine.

 

John closed his eyes briefly. He'd been right. Why did he have to be right?

 

 _"Because all the signs were there the whole time,"_ he reproached himself silently. _"You just didn't want to see them."_

 

How did cocaine work again? And what were the symptoms?

 

In his mind's eye, he opened one of the books he'd had to slog through as a med student...

 

_Cocaine hydrochloride_

 

_Causes nervousness, anxiety, and paranoia at high dosages._

 

_Enhances the mood, causes a sense of euphoria, increased competence and energy along with a reduction of hunger and fatigue._

 

_May cause paranoid delusions, persecutional mania, temporal and spatial disorientation, increased irritability and aggression._

 

_Regular consumption can drain the body's reserves._

 

_Short-term effects last 10-20 minutes, followed by a depressive condition._

 

_Visible symptoms: dilated pupils, muscle cramps, difficulties with coordination, sharp increase in body temperature and shakiness._

 

_Additional symptoms: skittishness, restlessness, paranoia, aggression, hallucinations, nausea, vomiting, abnormal heart rhythm._

 

Jesus... it all fit. Cocaine would explain everything. How could he have been so blind? Because he was always blind - always wanted to be blind - when it came to Sherlock. That was why.

 

The results of the blood tests would bring certainty. The needle mark had been fresh and cocaine could be detected in the blood anywhere from six to twenty-four hours after consumption.

 

John took a deep breath and curled his hands into fists. Then he asked Molly if there was anything he could do to help.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

As soon as John left the flat, Sherlock rushed over to the smiley face on the wall and examined the bullet holes and the surrounding wallpaper with all of the senses he had at his disposal.

 

Nothing.

 

Sherlock ran both hands through his hair and looked frantically around the flat.

 

There must be signs that someone else had been there. There had to be! Because if there weren't... Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't want to finish that thought.

 

He opened his eyes again and started going through the flat with a fine-toothed comb, paying special attention to the doors and windows.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John stopped short in the doorway upon his return with the results of the blood test.

 

The living room was completely torn apart. True, he hadn't exactly expected Sherlock to clean up the broken dishes from breakfast, but he hadn't been prepared for his friend to wreak even more havoc during his absence.

 

"Sherlock?!" he called out cautiously, then waited.

 

"YES?" Sherlock's voice came from his bedroom.

 

"What happened out here?" John asked without moving from his position. "Did someone break in?"

 

"NO!" Sherlock yelled, suddenly standing in front of him, visibly agitated. Sparks flashed in his eyes, yet there was also something oddly forlorn about his expression. "That's precisely the problem!"

 

"All right..." John said slowly, keeping a close eye on Sherlock.

 

Sherlock looked him over grouchily. "Stop that. That look. I'm fine..." He broke off. "Aren't I?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically weak.

 

"There was cocaine in the capsules," John answered, watching as Sherlock paled. "But your blood is clean. No trace of any drugs."

 

Sherlock wobbled for a moment but was able to regain control almost right away. He went to his chair without saying a word and dropped down into it then bent over until his head hung between his knees, and laced his fingers behind his neck.

 

"What's going on here?" John asked calmly.

 

"I don't know." Sherlock's voice came out somewhat muffled.

 

John exhaled. "Did you hide the cocaine in there? Don't lie to me."

 

Sherlock took his hands down, lifted his head, and supported himself with his lower arms on his thighs.

 

"I did not hide any cocaine anywhere," he said quietly, but firmly.

 

There was silence for the space of several seconds. Finally, John said, "Then someone must have been in the flat."

 

Sherlock straightened up with a jerk. "I know!" he cried excitedly. "But there aren't any signs of it. Nothing! Not - a - thing!"

 

"Ah..." John said as understanding sank in. "That's why the flat looks like a tornado tore through it."

 

"I examined the windows and doors... No scratches, no indentations, no paint flaked off, no fibres from ropes or anything like that... not even a trace of a foreign scent..." Sherlock registered John's look of wonder. "Yes, I can smell something like that! Have you forgotten that I knew Irene Adler was in my bed before I saw her?"

 

John gaped at him. "But someone must have been in here!"

 

"I KNOW!" Sherlock roared in exasperation. "And I don't know how they did it and it's driving me insane!"

 

"Maybe we should change the locks," John suggested somewhat helplessly.

 

Sherlock snorted in derision. "If it makes you happy..."

 

After reflecting briefly, John asked: "Do you at least have any idea who it was? I mean, even if we don't know HOW, we..."

 

"No," Sherlock cut him off brusquely. "It could have been anyone... I have plenty of enemies who are creative enough."

 

Sherlock watched John carefully to see if he would swallow the half-truth. Yes, John was nodding. Good. Sherlock didn't like lying to him, but it wouldn't help anything if he told him about his hazy dreams whose only constant denominator was a round room, blue light, and Jim Moriarty. That would destroy in a flash the unsteady faith that John was just regaining in him.

 

John sighed. "Maybe we should clean up a little around here."

 

"Yes, maybe," Sherlock admitted, trying not to let his relief show.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued…** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Here is the source for the time frame during which cocaine remains detectable (only in German):

 

<http://www.drugscouts.de/de/page/nachweiszeiten>

 

I got the rest of the information about cocaine from Wikipedia.

 

 


	14. And they lived...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most wonderful and amazing SwissMiss. Please visit her and read her stories!!!

 

**Chapter Thirteen**

**And they lived...**

 

The next several days were difficult, to put it mildly.

 

John went out and bought new dishes first thing on Monday to replace the broken ones. As he put them into the kitchen cabinets, though, he realised that it wasn't just plates and cups that had been broken that Sunday, but something else altogether.

 

He only hoped that it could be fixed, unlike the breakfast dishes. John hated himself for it, but he couldn't help the tiny, microscopic doubt that had implanted itself in his soul - right in the same spot where his faith in Sherlock had enjoyed a nearly limitless expanse of space up to that day.

 

Sherlock knew about that doubt - that was so plain to read on his face that it nearly caused John physical pain. Yet they didn't talk about it. John didn't dare begin that kind of conversation out of fear he might destroy even more, and Sherlock... good Lord! Who knew what went on in that head of his? Who knew what reasons the genius had for leaving such problems unmentioned!

 

A certain fragile and uncertain normalcy thus returned to Baker Street. John spent several nights on the couch while Sherlock barricaded himself in his bedroom, where John heard him pacing back and forth for hours. After about a week, however, John could feel every vertebra in his spine and decided to return to his own bed.

 

They'd ended up changing the lock after all, and Sherlock sprinkled flour on his window sill and the floor underneath the window and in front of the door before going to bed every night, in order to document any trespassing. It didn't get much more secure - or paranoid - than that.

 

Still, the look Sherlock shot John when he went up to his own bed that night cut deeply. His friend had never looked more lost, and his lips had never been pressed into such a thin line before.

 

Sherlock obviously didn't want to be alone, but he would never make that desire explicit, even if it killed him. John was on the verge of putting his own needs behind those of his friend once more, but just then a spike of pain shot through his lower back, making him clench his teeth. Just one night... maybe two... he haggled with himself. He'd hear if Sherlock called for him.

 

When John came into the living room the next morning, he found Sherlock curled up on the couch. He was snoring softly, but the dark rings under his eyes told John that he probably hadn't given in to his need for sleep until the early morning hours. John covered him carefully with a woollen blanket and decided to let him sleep while he went about making breakfast as quietly as possible.

 

But no sooner had he gone into the kitchen than Sherlock's mobile rang.

 

"Yes?" John heard Sherlock's sleep-heavy voice answer.

 

John sighed softly and went back into the living room.

 

Sherlock saw him standing there uncertainly and waved him closer.

 

"Yes, Lestrade. I heard you. Double murder... one poisoned, one hanged... Oh! The boyfriend of the waitress from the nightclub? Interesting. And the other one... Ah. Male - not yet identified. Fantastic. We'll be right there." Sherlock ended the call with a push of a button. "Good, you're already dressed, John," he said more cheerfully than John had seen him in quite a while. "Call a taxi - we need to get going right away." And with those words he practically ran into his bedroom to get dressed.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Despite the heavy rush hour traffic, it only took half an hour for them to arrive at the scene. Sherlock hadn't said a word the entire time, remaining intent on his phone instead. He didn't even look up when the taxi stopped and John got out to pay the driver.

 

"Sherlock?" John said. "We're here. Get out."

 

"Yes, yes, in a moment," Sherlock murmured absently, continuing to tap around on his phone.

 

John sighed, asked the driver to be patient a little while longer, and took a look around. They'd been summoned to an area where the houses were quite old and the streets very narrow. An ambulance, a hearse, the doctor's car and three police cars along with two civilian vehicles crowded together in front of the house where the bodies had apparently been found. The tall buildings and lead-grey sky gave John an uneasy, almost claustrophobic feeling. He wondered why the blue flashing lights still needed to be turned on while the emergency vehicles were stationary.

 

Becoming impatient, he called Sherlock again. This time, he had a bit more luck. Sherlock got out of the taxi, shoved his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, and took two steps toward the house before stopping and looking around for John.

 

"I'm here," John said before turning briefly away to wave to Sally Donovan, who was just coming out of the house. When he turned back to Sherlock, it took only a fraction of a second for him to realise that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock heard someone calling something. Was it his name? What was a name? He didn't know. He only knew that he was alone. All alone. In the dark. And there was that light again.

 

The Blue Light.

 

All over.

 

No matter where he looked.

 

Everywhere, nothing but the Blue Light.

 

Someone was screaming again, but it didn't really seem to mean anything.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When Sherlock came to, he tasted grass and dirt in his mouth.

 

Why was he lying on the ground? Why could he hardly breathe?

 

He tried to move, to shake off the weight on his back.

 

"Dammit, Pete - harder! He's starting again!" a strange voice shouted, and pain shot through his shoulders like a bolt of fire.

 

"Let him go!!"

 

John! That was John! John was here!

 

"John..." Sherlock tried to call out to him, but it came out as barely more than a whisper. He turned his head to the side with some difficulty and saw that a uniformed police officer was kneeling on him, holding him down. "What..."

 

"You'll break his arm!"

 

John again... and there were John's shoes. Sherlock couldn't make out anything more from where he lay on the ground. But although John used his best commanding tone of voice, the weight on his back didn't move a single millimetre. There must have been two policemen on top of him. Sherlock's head buzzed and it was difficult to think. He felt as if he were being smothered in cotton. The pain in his shoulders was the only thing that poked through into his consciousness like sharp bits of gravel.

 

"Let go of him, I said!" John yelled again, kneeling down next to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock squinted upward to look into John's face. He looked extremely distraught. And all grey. Strange.

 

"Sherlock! Sherlock... can you hear me? How do you feel?"

 

John's hand on the side of his head, on his cheek. Gentle. Good...

 

"What... happened?" Sherlock heard himself rasp.

 

"Let him go now!!" John shouted again at the policemen who were holding him down.

 

"Sir, I don't think he's in his right..."

 

A different voice than before. That must be Pete.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"He is completely in his right mind!" John interrupted the police officer. "I'll vouch for that!" John was about to just knock both policemen off Sherlock. With brute force if necessary. The sight of his friend being forced to the ground like a common criminal was more than he could take.

 

"Dr Watson." A cool, calm voice sounded behind him. John turned around only to find himself looking into Sally Donovan's calculating face. "We're going to have to arrest your _friend_ , I'm afraid," she said before turning to one of the other officers standing there. "Constable?"

 

John thought he must be hearing things. He jumped up. "You're going to WHAT?"

 

"He attacked an officer," Sally replied briskly. To John, it just sounded cold and heartless and a little bit snide.

 

The constable had come over to them and now gave Sally Donovan a questioning look.

 

"Cuff him," she told him without so much as a moment's hesitation.

 

"He didn't..." John protested, standing in the policeman's way.

 

The sneer and derision were now clear to see on Sergeant Donovan's face.

 

"Dr Watson... you saw as well as I did that he swung his fists, attacked my colleague and generally acted deranged."

 

John swallowed. Yes, he'd seen that. He bit down on his lips, not knowing what he should say, how much he should say, how much he was _allowed_ to say, to defend Sherlock.

 

"Sergeant Donovan, Sherlock is sick," he finally explained. It took a concerted effort for him not to lose his cool and irritate her even further.

 

Sally gave him an appraising look. "No kidding," she agreed before nodding to the policeman. "Handcuffs, constable." Her condescending gaze passed over John again. "So you've finally noticed what a sick freak he really is."

 

John saw red. He felt his hands start to shake. He put them in the pockets of his jacket to be on the safe side.

 

"Don't you dare!" he hissed at her. "I've never struck an officer of the law or a woman in my life. If you want things to stay like that, then shut up right now!"

 

Sally gasped, but before she could say anything, Lestrade came out of the house.

 

"What's going on here?" he said in a voice that was used to giving commands. His tone changed, though, once he realised who was lying in the garden. "Oh my God, Sherlock! What... what did he do this time?"

 

"Greg - Sherlock's..." John stopped himself. He couldn't think of the right words. "He's not doing so hot," he finally said, then went back over to kneel on the ground beside Sherlock.

 

"He attacked a police officer. He was swinging his fists around like a nutter!" Sally Donovan repeated her initial accusations. "We had to..."

 

"Yeah, I see what you had to do. Thanks, Sally," Lestrade said dryly, going over to John. "John - is he back to normal?"

 

John glanced at Sherlock. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving.

 

"Yes, dammit! But they want to cuff him!"

 

Lestrade didn't respond to that, instead asking, "Will you be able to handle him on your own, John?"

 

"Of course."

 

"Then just get him out of here, all right?" Lestrade suggested softly.

 

John breathed a sigh of relief. "There's nothing I'd rather do more."

 

Lestrade gave the two officers holding Sherlock down a signal, and they let him go, if with a certain amount of reluctance and doubt.

 

John helped Sherlock sit up and pushed his unruly hair back out of his dirt-smeared face.

 

"Lucky thing the taxi's still here," John murmured and felt Sherlock nod.

 

They stumbled back to the car together, where the driver was still sitting behind the wheel with his mouth hanging open. John held Sherlock upright as well as he could. It was clear he couldn't have covered the distance on his own. John noticed that Sherlock kept his head down and his eyes closed almost the whole way, and that when he did open them, it was only to blink for a fraction of a second.

 

Something in the area had disturbed Sherlock so much that he'd fallen victim to a rather spectacular panic attack. But what could it be? John's face bore a helpless expression as he helped his friend into the car.

 

"Yes, you'll be getting a tip," he barked at the driver rather rudely. "And not a small one either. But only if you get going right quick."

 

"Where to?" the driver sniped back.

 

"Baker Street," John said. "Home." He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and felt his friend press against him as if seeking solace and aid. His heart squeezed together. His every instinct urged him to protect, to fight. But from what? And against what? Facing an invisible threat and feeling so helpless was an extremely unpleasant experience for John, and one he would gladly have done without.

 

"Sherlock... what's wrong with you?" John whispered, keeping his voice so low that only Sherlock could hear.

 

Sherlock blinked a moment, only to squeeze his eyes shut again right away, burying his face in the crook of John's neck.

 

"The light, John... the blue light..." he whispered frantically, almost panicked. "It- it only comes when you're not there... John... stay... with me... Don't leave me... alone."

 

John tightened his arms around his friend. "Of course I'll stay with you," he murmured soothingly into the dark curls, trying not to let his disquiet and fear show.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Although John hadn't informed Mycroft of Sherlock's breakdown, he wasn't the least bit surprised when Sherlock's brother showed up at Baker Street later that same day.

 

"Where is he?"

 

"Hello to you too, Mycroft," John said with a prickly undertone, only to sigh in resignation a moment later when the other man didn't react. "In his bedroom. I gave him a sedative. He's sleeping."

 

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgment and sat down in John's armchair.

 

"Good. I wanted to speak to you alone anyway. Sherlock would only be in the way. What happened, exactly?" he asked.

 

John went to the window, but rather than looking out he stood to one side, his gaze fixed on the smiley face over the couch. How much could he tell Mycroft without there being any unpleasant consequences for Sherlock? How much did he need to tell him in order for him to help?

 

He turned to Mycroft and saw that he had been eyeing the cup and plate on the living room table. One eyebrow lifted, and a malicious smirk played at the edges of Mycroft's narrow lips.

 

"New dishes? Did the two of you have a domestic?"

 

"Not the right time or place, Mycroft," John snapped, a threat hanging behind his words. To his great surprise, Mycroft actually tipped his head in an apologetic gesture. John let out a breath.

 

"He said something about a blue light, and he was completely flustered... Mycroft - something's not right!" Then John went on to report nearly everything about the events of the past few days. Mycroft remained silent, but listened attentively.

 

When John was done, Mycroft rested his chin on his hands where they wrapped around the handle of his umbrella.

 

"All right," Mycroft said finally as he stood. "That's the last bit of confirmation I needed. I would like your permission to move Sherlock to a... facility, for a few days." It wasn't a request, even if Mycroft made it seem like one.

 

"What?!" John cried in alarm. "Why? He's completely normal!"

 

The eyebrow went up again and a sceptical look was directed at John.

 

"All right, yes," John admitted. " _Normal_... as normal as Sherlock can be. He's not crazy. You don't have any right to cart him off to some mental hospital!"

 

"That is not my intention," Mycroft replied in a rather condescending manner. "Still, a change of scenery would not be amiss."

 

John shook his head. "He'll never agree to it."

 

An unpleasant smile appeared on Mycroft's lips. "I can be rather convincing when I have a mind to."

 

"Why can't he just as well stay here?"

 

Something in Mycroft's expression changed. It was subtle, but John had the feeling that Mycroft Holmes had stopped playing games at that moment. He even thought he recognised the signs of true concern and heartache in those steely eyes.

 

"Because I cannot guarantee his safety well enough here. I don't want to have to worry about that in the next few days on top of everything else," Mycroft answered frankly.

 

"You... you know what's going on here?" John asked with a mixture of disbelief and suspicion.

 

"I can make an educated guess. I'll take care of it." He held out his hand to John. It was a promise.

 

John accepted it, shaking the proffered hand.

 

"All right," he said, his voice steady. "Thank you."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mycroft Holmes paced restlessly back and forth in his office, his hands behind his back. Yet even that didn't stop his fingers from twitching in a nervous staccato rhythm.

 

In the end it had been surprisingly easy to tuck Sherlock away in the well-guarded and -monitored institution. It was a luxury sanatorium where " _big names_ " were able to undergo both small and large procedures without the public finding out. And if there were one or two amongst them in need of a new identity and a new face, well that was really nobody else's business.

 

It was no great tragedy if Sherlock discovered any of that. His little brother found such things too mundane to remark on. He would forget all about it the second he set foot outside again.

 

His brother wasn't the reason for his agitation anyway.

 

In the end, it had been strangely unproblematic to pick up a certain trail. It had been a great deal more trouble to actually follow the trail, but not impossible. That was one reason for Mycroft's disquiet. The other reason was that the affair wasn't over yet. Too many things could still go wrong. In fact, the call with the report of the successful conclusion to the operation should have come in half an hour ago...

 

Mycroft's mobile phone buzzed. He had already answered it before it could sound a second time.

 

"Yes?" he said curtly.

 

"Access achieved," a military voice reported. "Target is in our custody and being brought to facility C."

 

"Thank you," Mycroft said neutrally. "Report again when the target is prepared for interrogation."

 

"Very good, sir."

 

Both parties rang off.

 

Mycroft stared off into space. A terrible look, full of smug satisfaction, appeared on his face.

 

"Gotcha!" he whispered softly, then entered John's number on his phone.

 

"John? Yes... I've taken care of it. There's no reason to concern yourself any longer. Nothing further will happen to Sherlock."

 

He listened a moment.

 

"I'd prefer to let Sherlock know myself." He paused again. "He can return home the day after tomorrow.... No, John. I really don't think you should know everything."

 

**oooOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mycroft walked through the catacombs of facility C. It was a bright, sunny day outside, but down here it was always night. His path led him past a great many steel doors, behind which were windowless rooms. Most of those rooms were empty, but others were full of secrets.

 

Mycroft had just left one of those rooms. A room with four walls and the usual observation window that showed a reflective surface on the inside but functioned as a normal window from the other side. A window that was conceived as a method of looking into the soul of the room's occupant, to rip out his secrets, discover his weak spots and use them against him.

 

But until now, this very special occupant had kept his secrets to himself. Stubborn, strong-willed, and with a permanent smile that had led Mycroft to forget himself and strike out.

 

To strike out until his knuckles were bloody - and still, Moriarty had smiled. Mild, knowing, forgiving.

 

Mycroft had left the room and watched the interrogation through the glass for an additional fifteen minutes. Violence was perhaps not the right key for this particular lock.

 

Maybe they should give chemistry a chance for the next interview. Maybe then he would start talking.

 

**oooOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Two days after his phone call with John, Mycroft visited the establishment where Sherlock was currently housed.

 

When Mycroft entered his room, his brother was lying on the bed with his shirt off, a blanket spread over his lower body and legs, regarding Mycroft with a look of utter boredom. Mycroft pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. The room looked like a high-class, luxury hospital room, yet Sherlock didn't appear overly impressed by the comfort surrounding him.

 

"How are you?" Mycroft asked his brother.

 

Sherlock snorted, then yawned. "Do you really care?"

 

"You can go home now," Mycroft informed him without commenting on the jab.

 

Sherlock's expression brightened. "Already? You've been busy then," he remarked, almost grudgingly. "Moriarty?" he then asked in a flat tone.

 

"Who else?" Mycroft replied dryly.

 

Sherlock retreated into his thoughts for a moment. "I thought so..." he said slowly. "At the end... a face appeared more and more frequently..."

 

"Well, this was the straw that finally broke the camel's back, following _Bond Air_. He wanted my attention... now he has it," Mycroft said coldly. "In abundance. Although he seems to have counted on that..." he admitted, his tone pensive.

 

"It will all be part of his game."

 

"Yes, I agree... but should I play along? What do you think?" Mycroft asked his brother.

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Why not... who knows what lengths he'll go to if you play the killjoy."

 

Mycroft fell silent. Then he said softly, "If it meant keeping you safe..."

 

Sherlock snorted again. "I should probably be flattered that I'm so important to you," he said contemptuously.

 

"Yes, in fact, you should," Mycroft retorted, sounding quite serious.

 

"If I really thought that were the case, I would be," Sherlock sneered.

 

Mycroft watched him silently before finally averting his gaze.

 

Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment before he resumed the conversation. "But I really think we should play the game to the end. When will you be letting him go?"

 

Mycroft's eyes turned hard. "If it were up to me... never."

 

"But it's not up to you... not exclusively, at any rate," Sherlock reminded him impassively.

 

"The looming government reshuffle won't leave me any choice," Mycroft admitted with a sigh. "He won't leave you alone. He'll try again to..."

 

"Destroy me?" Sherlock spoke over him. "Yes, he will. I'm aware of that. But I'll be prepared next time. All I need is a little more time - and you're going to get that for me."

 

"Do you already know what he has planned?" Mycroft asked with mild amazement.

 

Sherlock smiled tightly. "Theorising without all the facts? Mycroft!" he exclaimed reproachfully. "No, I'll just have to let myself be surprised. I may see things more clearly later on," he said as his gaze drifted off into the distance.

 

Mycroft squirmed on his chair before letting the topic go with a reluctant sound. "One more thing... the doctors think it's possible..."

 

"That I have a tendency to hallucinate under the influence of certain... medications... or rather _chemical substances_?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Precisely," Mycroft agreed. "The cocktail that Moriarty administered to you was... _unusual_."

 

"Fine, I'll bear that in mind," Sherlock remarked loftily.

 

"You should also stay away from those nicotine patches," Mycroft reminded him.

 

"I'll just take up smoking again..."

 

"Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock sent him a grumpy look. "All right, fine," he said with a distinct lack of grace. "I'll give it all up. Smoking, nicotine patches... satisfied?"

 

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his expression a little lighter. "I'm slightly more at ease, at any rate."

 

"I'll let John talk me into going cold turkey... whatever..." Sherlock acquiesced in a bored tone. "I should probably bribe a few people, just to be sure I can't get my hands on any cigarettes..." He gave his brother a penetrating look. "Now that that's done and dusted... be so good and keep Moriarty off my back for at least a couple of weeks. And now give me my trousers and get out of here. Or would you prefer I wander around London wearing nothing but a sheet again?"

 

"Sherlock!" Mycroft cried, aghast.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John's taxi arrived at the clinic where Mycroft had brought Sherlock, the man himself was already standing in the car park in front of the building with his bag.

 

John got out as soon as the taxi pulled up, holding his hand out to Sherlock in greeting. "Sherlock! Nice to see you..."

 

Sherlock gave him a grumpy look. "What took you so long?" he asked, pushing his bag into John's outstretched hand.

 

John rolled his eyes and put the bag in the boot of the taxi before climbing in next to Sherlock on the back seat. "There was a lot of traffic. Next time you might call a bit earlier. You could have taken a taxi yourself, I hope you realise that. You would have been home much sooner," John needled him.

 

Sherlock didn't answer, but his eyes darted over to John before looking away again. John bit down on his tongue. Damn. How could he have forgotten that Sherlock was uncomfortable being alone lately?

 

"But I'm happy to do it," John added, feeling remorseful. "Pick you up, I mean. Didn't have anything else to do at the moment anyway."

 

The pale eyes rested on John's face for several seconds. "Thank you," Sherlock finally said. The words were delivered in his usual condescending tone, but they still sounded oddly hesitant.

 

John cleared his throat. "What was wrong anyway? Mycroft's silent as the grave about it."

 

Sherlock's deep breath was the only thing to be heard over the muffled sounds of the traffic outside.

 

"John..."

 

John nodded. "No, it's okay. Right. I'll never know then. Doesn't matter. You were only about to go off the deep end - me too, by the way - but that's no reason to let me in on it."

 

"You're offended," Sherlock stated.

 

"You bloody well bet I am!"

 

"Sometimes it's better not to know everything."

 

"Better for who?" John pressed, acid in his tone.

 

"Better for you," Sherlock explained calmly. "It might be too dangerous."

 

John looked him over, his eyebrows drawn together. "So that means... it's not over yet?"

 

"Probably not," Sherlock admitted with a hint of regret. "John..."

 

"No," John cut him off. "It's fine. Really," he insisted. "I understand. Or I think I do, anyway." He smiled weakly. "I'll probably play my role better if I'm not in the know, right?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He sounded relieved.

 

"What now? Is there any immediate danger?" John asked.

 

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Oh, John... we're in mortal danger from the very moment we're born."

 

John watched him pensively. "Will you ever tell me about all of this? Sometime?"

 

Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. "Probably. But I wouldn't hold out much hope for many details." He was apparently aiming for a light-hearted tone, but he failed miserably.

 

"Sherlock... it had something to do with drugs..." Sherlock nodded once to confirm that, and John continued: "How bad was it?" John's voice had fallen to a concerned whisper.

 

"Bearable." Sherlock's reply was short and evasive. "You probably would have borne up better than I did."

 

"I doubt that."

 

A tired smile passed across Sherlock's lips, and he looked away. "We're almost there."

 

"Yeah?" John was surprised. Sherlock didn't usually state the obvious.

 

"Before we arrive..." Sherlock began hesitantly, turning back to John. "There is one more thing..."

 

"What?"

 

Sherlock leaned closer to John. "Do you trust me?" His pale eyes virtually bored into John's, amidst a strange, pleading expression.

 

"With my life," John said without batting an eyelash.

 

"Hopefully, that will never be necessary," Sherlock murmured, bending over until his lips almost touched John's cheek.

 

John's breath caught in his throat.

 

"When we get out of this taxi... then this episode's over. We will never say another word about it." Sherlock's voice ghosted across John's skin.

 

"Why..."

 

"It's better this way, John. Believe me."

 

John nodded gently and swallowed over a dry throat as Sherlock's lips now brushed his cheek.

 

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered. "I'll never forget what you've done for me. Thank you, for everything."

 

And then John felt Sherlock's lips press against his skin, felt Sherlock's mouth on that gloriously innocent spot between cheek and lip, kissing him tenderly.

 

John could no longer feel his own body, couldn't feel his own pulse, could only feel Sherlock's lips as they separated from him again, leaving him breathless and speechless in their wake.

 

The taxi stopped, the driver told them the price of the ride. Without taking his eyes off Sherlock - who returned the look, unflinching - John took a note out of his pocket and held it in the driver's general direction. The money was taken out of his numb fingers, and Sherlock turned away in order to get out.

 

The spell was broken.

 

John blinked fitfully and got out as well. Sherlock had already taken his bag out of the boot and was on his way to open the door.

 

"John? I hope you bought new nicotine patches for me!" he called over his shoulder as he entered the house.

 

"Erm... Sherlock?" John hurried to catch up with him. "I don't think that's a very good idea. Wouldn't it be better to stop smoking altogether? No more patches either?"

 

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "All right... if it means so much to you!" he groaned, pretending to be bothered, and went up the stairs. John couldn't see it, but Sherlock's lips curved into a grin. _That_ had been ridiculously easy.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**THE END**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

This is the end of the story.

As you've no doubt noticed, I've worked in several things from "The Hounds of Baskerville", partly to make it believable that the story is set in the middle of the TV series as aired - sort of to ensure a "seamless" transition.

Like the scenes from THOB and TRF where Moriarty is interrogated:

Original links:

<http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzb74w7M2r1r70bmw.png>

<http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7jgnwzrhm1rqobu1.jpg>

 

 

And then there's the attempt to explain why Sherlock saw Moriarty's face drenched in blue light when he was under the influence of the drugs in THOB. (As you can see quite nicely in this picture...)

 

And finally of course the bridge to quitting "cold turkey" at the beginning of THOB.

Here's another link that inspired me greatly... it deals with the problem of why Moriarty was let go, and his relationship to Irene.

<http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/post/17309795511/about-mycroft-letting-moriarty-go-i-though-mycroft>

 

I hope you've enjoyed this somewhat unusual story (at least it is to my mind). Thank you for accompanying me on the journey.

There was more research involved in this story than I'm used to, but I have to say it was worth the effort. It's been a year from the initial idea to the point of me typing this sentence and uploading the final chapter. But it was worth it.

And now my most heartfelt thanks go to SWISSMISS who again volunteered to translate this story for your reading pleasure. Give her many Kudos, hugs and love. She earned it! And more!

[ http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/ ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/)

 

For the German version there is a cover by themuller –isn’t it beautiful?

[ http://archiveofourown.org/users/themuller ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themuller)

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will try for weekly updates - starting tomorrow! February, 9th - stay tuned.


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